


An Honorable Man and a Just Woman

by WackyGoofball



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Again, Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Drama, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship, HEARTEYES MOTHERFUCKER, Hurt/Comfort, I Do, Kings & Queens, Longing Stares, Love, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Reconstruction Period, Regret, Romance, Second Chances, Slow Build, Slow Burn, So many tags, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Trauma, but i mean, but still, even though we were there already, i don't make the rules, king jaime, ok, one character is NOT dead while the rest is still totally dead, sorry - Freeform, there apparently is a tag for that thank God, they have some shit to work through yo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:20:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 105,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WackyGoofball/pseuds/WackyGoofball
Summary: Jaime Lannister, against the odds of his injuries, survives the Red Keep's collapse.This leaves not only him but many other people to deal with the aftermath of two queens fighting for the Iron Trone and so many losing because of it.Foremost, it leaves Jaime to deal with his future, a future he thought he wouldn't ever have after what Brandon Stark said to him at Winterfell. And his future may come to affect those of many more people than he ever would have dared to believe. Yet, it leaves him to deal with his past, too. Because he left something behind at Winterfell, something very dear to him, and now that he survived, Jaime has to come to terms with the consequences of his choices.And a whole nation has to decide on its own future, too.





	1. Time of the Broken and the Bold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Renee561](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renee561/gifts).



> Hello everyone, thanks for looking into this first fix-it fic I am attempting hereby. It's very much appreciated that you take the time. 
> 
> To send some things ahead for those who don't yet know me: English is not my native language. I walk the streets unbeta'd, which means all mistakes and flaws are mine and mine alone. I write in present tense (except for events of the past, evidently) - this is a conscious choice I made, though I know that some people really don't like it or can't cope reading it, which is more than fine, but it's the style I have chosen for myself for many reasons, so I hope that you can follow me down that path despite it or perhaps because of it. :)
> 
> The main idea for this fic was and is to keep quite a lot of what happened in the finale as it was (I know, here was some... many things that didn't go as planned, were too rushed, and other things, but I don't want to rant and I don't mean to invite it here, I got my JB as canon and as such I will keep it forever and always, so all is good in Wacky's little world) but twist it into something else, to something putting more focus on Jaime and Brienne. 
> 
> The one difference is that Jaime survives and something that I am currently reserving for myself for the surprise... not really, I mean, there are tags for you to read. ;) But you know how I mean it. I want to play with the idea what would have been in a world in which someone as "unlikable"and "unlikely" as the Kingslayer, a character striving towards redemption after having done some bad things in the past, lives and is bound to try to achieve it, or get, a the very least, as close as he can, with every day of a future he suddenly now has left. 
> 
> At the same time, this is evidently supposed to give me the opportunity to dive into the JB content I wish we could have gotten more from. Therefore, this is also meant to shed light on some of the things I couldn't quite make sense of after what I saw with regards to Brienne and Jaime. For that we have fix-it fics after all, right? :D
> 
> FYI, I am trying to keep POVs separate, which I don't do for all fics, but for this fic I found it rather fitting. 
> 
> I gift this to my most precious Renee who's kept me from... ficcing prematurely and sending it out before I had even so much as a chapter written. She's been an incredible support, offered insight when I got lost in both the feels and the plot opportunities, and is forever a most awesome, precious friend who deserves so many things and more. 
> 
> Either way, you have been warned and I hope you enjoy the ride.
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Winter came and went, the Long Night came and disappeared into the dawn.

Light was reborn from the darkness.

The sun rose over snow-dipped mountaintops, above the ashes of the battlefields still burning. And however great the sacrifices may have been, victory was wrestled from the dead so the rest may live.

It was supposed to be a new beginning – a dream of spring.

Though perhaps that was more wishful fantasy, hopeful thinking for the hopeless, because the sun rose today, too, like it does any other day, but one cannot see it behind the wall of ashes, of death lingering in the air. One can only watch the fragments of life, of people, flying through the dusty air as corpses burn to fragments and twirl down destroyed alleyways, only to be shaken up anew for another round of the most wicked dance.

The dead are dancing to mute screams of those to come next, and the only victory seems to be that the life wrestles against life, leaving only death in the wake of whoever turns out victor of this most cruel game of thrones.

The sound of cracking stone and breaking bone rings into the last corners of every narrow passageway, howls and shrieks in the smallest of crevices in the walls on the verge of collapsing under the weight of power, and the hunger for it.

Fire licks at stone that held together a city for hundreds of years, angrily gnaws at it so nothing shall remain.

And amid the destruction, people keep running, shouting, trying to live, no matter the threat, no matter the consequence, no matter the Stranger’s cold breath running down the spines of young and old alike.

Because if they stop running, if they stop living, there is just death’s dance waiting for them, a ballroom trapped between a sky without a night and without a day above and a city turning to ash below.

An end without ending.

A future without future.

A cruel kind of eternity.

* * *

 

Tobin never imagined it would come to this when he put on the armor in the morning and joined the Lannister forces in the capital, as he had been ordered to do the day before.

He joined the armies back when Tommen Baratheon still had the Iron Throne, however short a time that may have proved to be. He had no illusions, like many others, about Queen Cersei being as vicious as rumors painted her, or perhaps even crueler than that. A woman who was forced to walk the streets naked as a whole nation watched and was mocked by all those she kicked down before has no love for the likes of them. Everyone knew that, and yet they went closer to the Red Keep, counting on stone, counting on wood, on nature itself to hold better than this hateful woman’s clutches ever could.

But now there is another, younger, a strange beauty from beyond the Narrow Sea.

And with her she brought an army meant to take the city by force.

And with her she brought a dragon.

_A dragon!_ Tobin never thought he’d see such creature. Even though he knew they once roamed the Seven Kingdoms, they were monsters of myth, of stories passed over to children to give them a fright. He never even saw the skulls in the Red Keep, only ever heard the tales looming around another dance that changed the whole nation. But then he saw this monster fly over the city and Tobin understood that no single story ever did it justice, could ever express the terror of its fire, its sheer power, and its will to carry out what its master wants. And what she wants is this city, is the crown, the Iron Throne.

Though all Tobin sees is fire licking at the outer walls of the city, on the verge of pushing further to the inside. She started burning the skin of that body away, and now she means to turn to the flesh, until she reaches the heart and burns it out.

_And that even though she claimed that she wanted to free us._

Tobin heard the conversations as he stood vigil by the city gates the day the conqueror’s advisor and friend from across the Narrow Sea was executed by Queen Cersei. He shut his eyes, he will admit. Tobin didn’t find it just what his Queen did to that woman. And now he feels like closing his eyes, too, because none of this is just either.

The Dragon Queen doesn’t bring them justice, she only ever brings war and destruction. And is _that_ just? Is that honorable? Is that good? Is that how you make people free? Tobin doesn’t know, though he dares to doubt.  

For all it seems, there are no just kings, no just queens, only destruction, death, and screams waiting for the likes of him, those never asked, those never heard.

Maybe he should have listened to his old man back in the day, to leave the city while he still could, but Tobin wanted to be a soldier. Since he was a scrawny lad he dreamed about wearing golden armor and riding a horse with a sword strapped to his waist. Tobin thought that meant something. That it would make him more than some rat born amidst bowls o’brown and the piss running down the cesspits of fancy and smallfolk alike. He wanted to be more than his father, more than himself, just a little bit, but even that bit seemed to be too much to ask, looking at the streets now where people flee and find no place to hide, no place to live.

His old man died as he lived, laboring without ever getting more than just enough to feed his family and keep a home. Tobin’s father cleaned the streets with his shovel day in, day out, shoveled the dirt and shit so others could walk. One day he just collapsed, fell to the ground and was dead. Tobin wanted more than that for his life, for his death. He didn’t want to die like his father did, shoveling the dirt of others only to die in it. He wanted to become a respected soldier, fancied himself becoming a knight one day, and perchance getting a stretch of land outside the city for his mother to spend the last of her days after she already had to live the tough life of a widow ever since his father came to pass.

His old man used to laugh at Tobin’s ideas, berated him to take on a proper job, learn a trade, something useful, something to build with, and then get the Seven Hells out of the city once he’d have enough money. Back in those days, Tobin was angry with his father for not believing in his dreams, in him. And the rebellious son he was, he pursued that life of his dreams anyway, perhaps with even greater fervor, believing it to have the better prospect of the future, believing himself more right.

However, looking at things now, Tobin feels more like he is about to face his father’s fate than anything else. Today, he’s cleaned the streets by dragging dead bodies away so others still alive may keep waking, may keep living just a while longer. And if Tobin doesn’t watch it, he will end up like his father, face in the dirt, breathing no more, fading from view, from memory, having achieved nothing anyone would ever wish to tell a story about.

He won’t get that stretch of land for his mother, won’t leave the city. That future he dreamed of, it is no more. It was swallowed whole by the ash and the fire raining down above their heads.

They all walked into the trap because there was no escape. And now it’s either dying locked in the Red Keep or at the hands of the woman seeking to take the city because she finds she deserves that bloody chair more than the Queen currently having it.

The Queens, for whatever their intentions, both swallow the futures of the people for breakfast and dinner today, or perhaps it’s supper already, Tobin doesn’t know. The day is too dark, the sky too far away, and he is afraid it’s about to get darker still.

And his father will get to tell him in the afterlife that he was right all along, that his lad was a fool who played knight but never could become it because knights don’t matter in this world. Because it’s only the fancy folks living in their castles that make the rules, who decide on who gets to live in there and who has to die defending it.

_I really should have become a carpenter instead of trying to become a knight…_

“Soldier!”

Tobin whips his head around when he feels someone grabbing his sleeve forcefully. His hand travels to his dagger, ready to defend himself if need be, but then Tobin sees a face he finds somewhat familiar. It takes the young man a moment, then two, to put the familiarity next to a name, until he does.

“Ser Jaime!” he gasps. Tobin only ever saw him a few times. When they marched against the High Sparrow, he saw him ride up the steps of the Sept of Baelor all boldly, with a kind of determination Tobin hardly ever saw on Queens and Kings and only ever found in the eyes of soldiers and knights, those sworn to protect, those ready to defend, bold enough to draw a sword and use it.

Though the man looks different from that image, much different from the Jaime Lannister who rode up the stairs on a white horse, the man who once reminded Tobin of a golden dagger about to cut through the sparrow’s nest. There is fear in the older man’s eyes now, or perhaps he is just the mirror of Tobin’s own condition, he doesn’t really know. The only thing he knows is this:

These are not the days for the bold anymore, it seems.

“Ser Jaime, I am…,” the young soldier stammers, but he finds himself pulled into a side alley where fewer people try to push past them in direction of the Red Keep, however futile that may be. Tobin studies the older man with wide eyes, trying to figure out just what Ser Jaime Lannister would want with a meaningless lad from Flea Bottom whose father told him to leave and did not, and is now meant to leave the same way his old man did, face in the dirt, meaning nothing.

“Listen to me now, we don’t have the time, soldier,” Jaime snaps, looking around frantically, chest rising and falling as though a thousand stones rested upon it right at that moment. “I need you to do something for me.”

“What?” Tobin asks, frowning.

“You need to go up that tower here and ring the bells for me,” Jaime tells him, pointing at the tower just around the corner. Tobin’s frown only ever deepens at that request. “The bells…?”

_What would they change?_

“Yes, they are the signal of the city’s surrender. This war is lost, but that doesn’t mean everyone has to die for it. Ring those bells as fast as you can and we may save at least a few more lives. Do you understand?” Jaime urges him, squeezing Tobin’s arm all the tighter.

“Yes.” Tobin nods his head frantically, suddenly finding purpose and a faint glimmer of hope that he doesn’t mean nothing after all.

“After that, I need you to grab as many of your men as you possibly can and go to these squares before the dragon gets there first…,” Jaime continues. He lets go of Tobin’s arm to take a folded-up piece of parchment out of his vest.

Tobin watches silently as the older man unfolds it awkwardly with just a single hand before pressing it against the stone with the golden one. The young soldier can recognize the outlines of the city on the parchment at once, but he is irritated by the marks on it, red X’s all over the city, because they don’t appear on any other map he ever saw of King’s Landing.

 “You have to get people away from those places immediately,” Jaime continues, pointing at the X’s for emphasis.

“But why?”

Jaime’s nostrils flare as he speaks, “There is still wildfire from the Mad King underneath those squares, in crypts beneath the city. Even more people will die if you don’t get there first to get them out of there and away from those places, away from that fire coming from below.”

“But if we ring the bells…,” Tobin stammers, somewhat at a loss.

If they signal their surrender, it should stop, right? Then the fire would die out over time and perhaps there would be a tomorrow underneath the ash. Isn’t that the point of surrender? Isn’t that the tune those bells are meant to ring, then?

“She arrived here with a dragon. I know that their fire reaches far. We can’t take any chances even if Daenerys Targaryen accepts the surrender. And we cannot count on it either, I am afraid, not after what the Queen did to her friend…,” Jaime explains as he hands the map to Tobin. “Now I know I am asking the impossible of you, but we may save innocent lives if we act quickly, so will you follow my orders, soldier?”

“Yes, Ser.”

“Very good. I thank you,” Jaime says, squeezing his arm again, but this time in comfort, Tobin can tell. And for a moment there, though only to himself, he feels reminded of the last time he saw his father alive, before he went to work to shovel dirt like any other day. His old man squeezed his shoulder after breakfast and gave him a gentle smile before he left. That was the last Tobin ever saw of him, and something tells the young soldier that it may be the last he will see of Ser Jaime, too.

“To where are _you_ headed?” the young soldier asks.

“The Red Keep.”

Tobin frowns at that. “Why?”

“A change of plan… or having a plan where I didn’t have one before… but it doesn’t matter,” Jaime ponders, looking around. “We need Daenerys Targaryen to know that we surrender, not just because of the bells, as those even you and I can ring in a Queen’s stead. The one who has to surrender to her is Queen Cersei, so to the Queen I go… hoping to sway her.”

“Will you need men with you?” Tobin questions, swallowing thickly. “I could have some gathered if you give me a bit of time…”

“No, I am going on my own. You go now and ring the bells. And once that is done…,” Jaime begins, and Tobin completes, nodding his head, “Get as many men as I can, go to the X’s on the map and bring as many people as possible away from them to get them to safety.”

“Yes, very well,” Jaime agrees, flashing a smile overshadowed by anxiousness and fear, a sense of foreboding. “I hope to see you again… what is your name, soldier?”

“Tobin.”

“ _Tobin_ , you are doing the city a great honor… Good luck.”

“Good luck to you, too,” Tobin mutters as Ser Jaime disappears back into the busy street, soon consumed by a thousand heads and shuffling feet as they push for a way into the Red Keep, to a safety that will never come from that direction.

“The bells!” Tobin shouts, before bolting for the tower.

He has a mission now.

And maybe, just maybe, he can prove his father wrong after all.

Maybe today _is_ the day for the bold.

* * *

 

Tyrion never felt his feet weigh that heavy, not even as he dragged himself to the ship that took him to Essos after he murdered his father and Shae. Back then, he thought he would collapse under the weight of that guilt, that this was the greatest weight he ever had to carry, but he was wrong.

It is this weight that is threatening to suffocate him, break every bone in his body and leave him bleeding out slowly.

Tyrion runs his fingers over his eyes, feeling fresh tears welling up, but he cried enough, shed enough tears to ease his suffering. He now has to focus, he has to come up with a plan, however futile it may prove to be in the end. He has to try at least.

_Like he did…_

Tyrion cannot fail yet again because he failed far too many people already, disappointed too many hopes, let them be destroyed, burned and turned to ash.

His attention is drawn to a soldier cautiously walking through the rubble, looking around nervously. _A Lannister soldier_ , Tyrion adds to himself, finding it all the more curious that Grey Worm and the Unsullied didn’t yet find and execute him. After all, that is the new rule now, for what it seems. The dwarf gets to his feet at once and makes his way over to the young man stumbling over the remains of a city still burning.

“Have you lost your wit, my friend?” he asks in a lowered voice, hoping not to call attention to them both. “The Unsullied would not want you anywhere near that building. Get back someplace safer. Only death awaits you here.”

The young soldier just looks at him with an expression Tyrion fails to read under all that dust and blood and grime.

“What are you searching for, soldier? Don’t you see that all lays in ruins?” Tyrion sighs, biting back tears all over.

_And it is all because of me, because I believed, because I was a fool._

“He didn’t make it then, did he?” the young man then asks sadly, forcing Tyrion to frown.

“Who? I’m afraid too many didn’t make it through this day, so you will have to be more precise, my friend,” the dwarf says, his grimace stoic yet filled with pain on the verge of breaking him apart, shattering him like the rubble all around him, like the rubble he climbed to find his life in ruins all over.

Because he couldn’t keep _them_ safe, and even now, he can’t do nothing much to protect that which remained.

_What a Lord Hand I am!_

“Ser Jaime,” the young soldier answers, which takes Tyrion by surprise. “You’ve seen him?”

“He was the one who’s given me the order to ring the bells and try to get the people away from the wildfire under the city… of which I didn’t know until then… If not for him, many more of us would’ve been dead than are now anyway…,” the soldier answers, his voice cracking towards the end. “So is he…?”

Tyrion coughs, forcing dust and ashes down his throat, so he may never forget its taste, the taste of his wrongdoing. “He let you ring the bells… of course he did.”

And that plan failed, too. He sent his own brother to do what Tyrion knew he could not do himself, and it changed nothing, absolutely nothing. The only one who made a difference for good was his big brother in the end, the way it’s always been.

He rode into that city to defend, not to take, and that, at its core, is what Jaime Lannister always was about.

_Even though most never heard that part of the story, but I did, I knew._

“And he gave me this map, showed us where to go to get the people away from the wildfire,” the soldier tells him, looking down. “Not that this saved them from the fire from above, but the fire from below… it didn’t get as many as it could’ve.”

The dwarf shakes his head with a sad smile. _Of course he did. Of course he’d try not to see his finest act be destroyed by a Targaryen all over. Of course he did. And he said he didn’t care… what a foolish lie to tell._

However, that memory soon washes away in the face of what he saw, and it reminds him that he cannot give up just yet, despite the weight on his shoulders, his chest, his entire being. Tyrion walks up to him slowly, carefully measuring his steps, as though the walls around him may bury them underneath at once. He only stops once he is right next to him. The young man bends down out of reflex, for which Tyrion is glad for once, because it is only reserved for his ears and his ears only.

Hope is such a fragile thing and he cannot allow it to break any further.

Too many wheels were broken already.

_She can’t have that one, too._

He can’t let her make it stop spinning.

_Not ever._

“… Can you keep a secret, soldier?” the dwarf mutters, his voice almost not audible.

The young man looks at him for a long moment, but then nods his head. “Yes.”

“Mind keeping one for me?” Tyrion asks slowly.

“No, I don’t mind, my lord,” the soldier answers. “What do you want me to keep a secret? What do you want me to do with it?”

“You will see for yourself in the crypts underneath the Red Keep whether you can find what you are looking for,” Tyrion continues silently, slowly. “And that which you find… _keep a secret_. Can you promise me that?”

The soldiers swallows, and Tyrion can tell that he understands, and he is glad for it, because that means that perhaps not all is lost just yet, that there are a few wheels still turning in the right direction.

“Aye,” the young man says faintly.

“Then go forth and be quick about it. It’s only a matter of time until _she_ gets here, and you don’t want to be caught. Make sure you stay out of view. You must act quickly now and follow down this path until the very end, walk down to a small opening in the stone. You will see a small boat there. This is where you enter. You will find a small passageway leading up. You just keep walking past the dragon skulls, past everything you see. You only walk ahead… until you reach a wall of rubble. There is a hole there, leading into another room. You may have to get some more rocks out of the way to fit someone your size. Get in there…” Tyrion tells him, gesticulating to show him the directions. “And… you know the rest.”

“What of you, though?” the soldier asks, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and concern, the latter of which is an emotion Tyrion knows he is entirely undeserving of. Yet, at this point, he will take comfort in it. Because this may be the last time he will hear someone speak to him kindly, will look at him mildly.

Because where his brother once succeeded against the Mad King, Tyrion failed against the Queen who lost her way and he let her continue to walk into the darkness.

Jaime saved half a million people all those years ago, and at least a couple hundred more this very day, but Tyrion? At his core, he failed to protect anyone, even more so the people he loved no matter how little they loved him in turn.

_Who is the stupidest Lannister now?_

“I am awaiting our new Queen,” Tyrion answers.

“Queen of the Ashes, is all she is.”

“Queen of the Ashes indeed…,” Tyrion agrees, inhaling another time to remind himself that, yes, this is the truth. “Go now, don’t look back. And keep the secret.”

“I will… Good luck to you.”

“All luck to you, soldier. You hold my one hope in your hands now, I’m afraid.”

The young man disappears behind the next huge stone boulder. Tyrion walks back to the center of what used to be a room once but is now open space, only ever filled with the remains of a house, a castle, meant to offer protection. He sucks in a deep breath. He remembers that smell, the same he inhaled back on the battlefield at Highgarden.

The smell of death.

The smell of lives that went up in flames, turned to ashes and flew away.

_And that even though the bells rang loud and clear._

Because sometimes good intentions turn bad and bad intentions turn out not so bad. Other times, wheels that one believed needed breaking only ever turned to charred wood instead of providing a way forward. And there is no force in the wind anymore to make it turn around to a new beat, a new melody. This wheel can only ever screech to the same old tunes of tyranny and death, of its own brokenness.

“What have we done?” he mutters to himself. “What have I done?”

_And how does it all end?_

Though Tyrion knows this one thing:

It _has_ to end.

* * *

 

Masha saw leaders come and go. More often than not, she was glad when they went, but in her old days, she came to realize that it was a false sense of hope that the next one would not be worse, because also, more often than not, they were _far_ worse.

Her hands may be bony and brittle from old age by now, but they had to work fast today, on men’s stomachs with the guts sticking out, children with burned cheeks, they had to feel babies kicking in the womb, and sometimes confirm that they did no more. Her hands were restless today. And yet, all feels the same, _if only worse_.

Because that just seems to be the way of the world works, it only gets worse, at least for the likes of them, those no one cares about as cities burn and collapse and bury underneath them their children. Because the grandeur futures kings and queens and lords and ladies dream about, the ones they have others fight wars over to see them achieved? They are not for them to live, they are for them to die for.

Masha has seen it all, her hands have felt it all.

It’s an old song, and it’s bloody well tragic that they still have to play it on broken harps and flutes, forever out of tune, echoing into the past and future all the same. And if she still had tears to spare, Masha would shed them for the lost souls who were never granted so much as a small future, a little mercy, because queens and kings and lords and ladies just don’t seem to care.  

She’s seen it all, and yet, nothing prepared her for this. Masha knows she shouldn’t have been surprised, because she knows it only ever gets worse.

_Yet, this is… the worst, so far anyway. Because who knows what terror is yet to knock on our doors?_

A bang on her front door pulls Masha out of her thoughts, back to her little house, one of the few that remained standing after a bloody dragon flew right across it and burned squares, alleys, and people all alike. She wipes her hands in her bloodied apron with a frown.

_I didn’t think they’d come that fast._

“Open up!”

Masha recognizes the voice at once, though she is surprised by the urgency. The city grew so quiet after the attack. People were too busy hiding from the Unsullied to grieve the dead and cry for them, too afraid that their tears may seal their fate.

“Do we have to run away again?” she asks as she dries her hands.

“No, just open the damned door already, Mother!”

“I’m on my way! Seven Hells, a woman of my age should not have to hurry so.” Masha makes her way over to the door and opens, only to nearly fall over as her own lad pushes inside the house, dragging a man’s body covered in dust and blood alongside him.

“What by the Crone…,” Masha mutters as her son pushes the other man fully inside, though his powers are short before leaving him. “Tobin, I can’t bring back the dead.”

“He is _not_ dead!” her son shouts, with a kind of desperation she last heard when she had to tell him that his father was no more. Back then, her boy did not believe, old her that it couldn’t be, and she hears that boy speaking just now, too.

Masha looks down to the man her son seems so desperate to know alive to detect the smallest rise and fall in the poor man’s chest, a last quiver, a last stand against death beating against this broken body.

It only ever leaves Tobin’s mother wondering why her lad would drag this half-dead man across what seems like half the city, all the way to here. This man is none of his friends, Masha can tell, even with all the dust and blood covering him.

_He is too old for that._

“He needs help, Mother,” Tobin urges her, already moving back to pick the unmoving man back up, even though he nearly topples over from the exhaustion.

“Is that…,” Masha tilts her head as a flash of familiarity rushes through her. She wouldn’t know for she never saw the man in the flesh, but Masha heard the stories, rumors, descriptions, and he matches the image it thus created inside her head for many years.

“Quiet,” the young man hisses.

“Tobin!”

“ _Quiet_ , I said! And close the door. The Unsullied are still roaming the streets, looking for blood,” Tobin curses at her, and his mother follows suit, quickly barring the door as her son checks on the unconscious man once more.

“You brought the _Kingslayer_ into the remains of my house?” Masha curses once the door is shut. “Are you mad?”

“I need you to treat him, so yes, I brought him here,” Tobin answers, nervously checking the windows another time to be sure that no one else is there. “And no, I am not mad. What’s mad is the world outside, Mother.”

“I just washed my hands of the blood of the lot whose wounds I treated,” Masha complains. “Far too many of them.”

“Then it’s time you get them dirty again. His life’s hanging by a single thread, Mother,” Tobin urges her.

“… What’s it to me?” she scoffs, setting her jaw.

All the lords and ladies for whose futures they have to die… Why should she waste valuable bandages and ointment and water for the likes of him? Why should they still try to save the people who’d never mean to keep them safe?

Why should she care about the man who was brother – _and from the rumors more than that_ – to the Queen who’s used Masha’s friends as a shield against the other Queen?

Why should she care about the careless?

Why should she protect those who left them without protection?

_Why fight for his future when I couldn’t save that of my dear friend Lara? Or her husband? Or their little boy who’s an orphan now? Why does his future matter but never ours?_

“If not for him, not one of us would still be breathing, Mother, that is why,” her son answers with a resolution she rarely saw on her lad, even less so after his father’s demise. “Now help him, and don’t be so stubborn for once.”

“Tobin.”

“I’m not going to beg you. I am demanding it. I made a promise and I keep my promises. Father’s taught me that, too,” her son hisses, gritting his dust-covered teeth. Masha studies him for a moment, for a split second seeing her husband in the flesh before her.

“Fine, _fine_ , put him on the table and get me all the lamps you can. This will be a long night,” Masha sighs at last, gesturing at the dinner table that today became more than that, not to serve food but holding on to life itself.

_I am not doing it for him, I am doing it for my husband now,_ she tells herself. _Because for the first time in a long time, I saw him and heard him in my son’s voice. And for that I suppose I can at least try to give you a future, Kingslayer. So you better don’t die or else my son will weep for you. And I don’t believe you deserve his tears._

As it appears, she now has to hold on to the life of the Kingslayer too, with her bony, brittle hands, because her dear Tobin may be a fool at times, but he is honest, good and true, all those things queens and kings and lords and ladies stopped to be because they fancied the game of thrones all too much.

And if what her Tobin says is true, then Masha may owe that man a future, for all those futures that passed through her bony hands today and walked away alive, not set aflame by green fire.

“It appears the Long Night is now upon us, too, after we thought it’d stay in the North,” Tobin mutters, looking at the Kingslayer with anxiousness.

“Quick now! The lamps!”

“Yes, Mother.”

And so she sets to work once again, even as the sky grows impossibly darker outside and the city falls into the slumber of impending death. Masha has her son tear away the clothes of the man now lying on her table, so she can better see the extent of the wounds, of which there are sadly many, and deep ones, too.

“It’s a miracle the man’s still breathing,” Masha mutters, examining the injuries to his sides, gently probing them, though the man doesn’t even seem to have the power to stir. “Lucky bastard he is, it missed the organs for the most part, or else there would be no more blood in him after all this time. What’s happened to his head?”

“Big roof fell on him,” Tobin answers.

“What roof?”

“Red Keep?”

“Lucky bastard indeed! Looks like that whole damned castle rained down on him and yet the bastard’s still breathing,” she snorts. “We’ll need more boiled wine.”

“I’ll fetch it,” Tobin says, already rushing off.

Masha looks at the man before her, studies his bloody, dirty features. It is strange to her each time, how pain makes them all equal. Because a stabbed rich man will not look any different from a stabbed someone who’s never tasted anything but bowls o’brown for all his life. They all bleed the same blood. It’s always red, never blue. Their organs are where everyone else’s are. They are all the same underneath the skin.

They whimper, they twist, they turn, they breathe shallowly and suffer.

It may be the one thing people can share in no matter their status, no matter their name.

_And doesn’t that tell you something about the poverty of this world if that is the only thing to unite us all?_

Masha’s hands don’t tire as they work on a man not like them yet just like them, her hands clean, stitch, bandage tightly or burn out wounds to stop the bleeding. Hours pass in which she fights for a man she doesn’t know and likely never would have known, had her son not dragged him into her house, or what remained of it after the dragon swept across it.

She fights for a future not hers, because that is what her hands can do, and so they shall until the day they can no more. So that the world, for once, may not turn worse all over, but just a bit better, just one single bit.

“It’s done,” Tobin’s mother sighs at last, wiping sweat from her wrinkly brow. Masha steps away, looking at her work with a tired satisfaction. “For now at least, he will live. Let’s see how he fares by morning’s rise… if there even is a morning after such a night.”

Tobin pulls up a chair for her, so she may rest her old limbs at last. He brushes the back of his dirtied hand over her old cheek, offering a tired smile of gratitude, of the kind of affection that made her pull through all the darkness she saw throughout her life. Masha sits down heavily, leans her head back and studies her boy from below, smiling faintly at the thought that he seems to stand so much taller all of a sudden.

Both men lived, which is a miracle in itself, her little blessing, her bit of a future.

“So it’s true, what you said. Many live because of him, yes?” she asks, studying her son from below as he leaves his hands on her shoulders, looking at the man lying where they used to eat breakfast and dinner and supper, where they both saw Tobin’s father alive the last time before he left them forever, only to come back to them for just that small moment hours ago, when Masha saw him in her son’s eyes.

Tobin nods his head slowly. “He gave me the orders to ring the bells, to surrender.”

“That did not work well, did it?” Masha sighs. She heard the bells and dared to hope that it was all over, but then she heard wings flutter, heard them climb high into the air, and then she heard wings rain with fire. And after that was done, there were just screams, nothing but screams and the screech of a city collapsing under the weight of its powerlessness.

“No… but he tried. He tried to get Queen Cersei to surrender to the Dragon Queen personally. That’s why he went into the Red Keep, or so he told me.”

“And then the roof fell down on him,” Masha huffs. “So two things that didn’t work out greatly for him, aye?”

“But one thing did, and that is what saved so many lives today,” Tobin argues. He reaches into his pocket to take out a slip of parchment he hands to his mother. Masha takes it from him and unfolds the slightly burned and dirtied map, as it turns out. She studies the image of the city that is no more, though her eyes remain mostly fixed on the big X’s drawn on it with unsteady hand.

Her son points at the marks on the map, too, as he continues to explain, “If not for this here, many more would have been eaten by the green fire sleeping underneath the city ever since Aerys Targaryen put it there.”

“Wildfire… I thought that was all gone for good.”

“It seemingly was not.”

“And he knew of it.”

“Well, who would know if not the likes of him?” Tobin ponders.

Masha looks back at the map. “So he marked those places.”

“He marked them and sent us there to get the people away. I don’t know how many children I carried to different squares today, Mother, but I saw quite a few on the way as I dragged him to the house. They live, for now anyway. And that’s thanks to this map, thanks to him.”

“Well, he could have helped you do that if it was that important to him,” Masha snorts, not yet daring to believe, because she’s seen too much, heard too much, felt too much.

“I told you. He went to the Red Keep to get the Queen,” Tobin argues.

“Seems like the other Queen got there first.”

“Seems like it, aye.”

Masha shakes her head as she folds the map back up and hands it back to her son. She squeezes his hand a while longer and he grants it.

“I certainly wished he’d asked another soldier as you risked your life far too much for a mother to bear today, but… all those lives.”

And that is what she can’t deny, because she saw it, she saw those lives, put ointment on their wounds and bid them farewell, wished them good luck. If not for that map, however, it appears, there would have been far fewer she could have said those words to.

Tobin looks down. “We all would have liked to save more, but… he gave us at least a chance to save some, for which I am glad. I felt like standing on the wrong side for a long time… until today, when I realized that neither Queen’s side was good for us. His side, though? I think it was. It saved people, it saved us.”

“I never saw the man, you know? Only ever heard his name… looks different from what I expected. Almost like one of us,” the mother ponders. “I mean, granted, we all look the same, covered in dust and ashes, and even more so on the inside, but… not quite what I would have expected from someone as ominous as the Kingslayer.”

“We’re all just human underneath the fine garbs, armors, or rags, as Father used to say,” Tobin argues. “Covered in dirt, we all look the same.”

“And wasn’t he been right about that, hm? Just another human, covered in ashes.” She looks back at the Kingslayer, the man who no one believes would care, and yet, he drew a map, and yet, he made a try to save lives, if only just a few. On her table lies a lord who saved and protected little futures, gave small blessings.

_The world is a strange place._

“I hope he lives,” Tobin says, swallowing thickly, biting back a tear.

“Why do you care for him so, dear?” his mother wants to know.

“I’d want to thank him. It felt good, to save at least a few lives, it felt right in all that wrong we had to undertake as of late. It felt like justice,” Tobin mutters, wiping a single tear from his dirtied face, leaving a dark smear across the side of his face.

Masha grabs his cheek to wipe the tear away with her thumb to bring forth some of the pale skin she knows so well underneath it. “My sweet boy. You were so much more than your father would have believed. He’d be so proud.”

“Would he?” Tobin croaks.

“Most certainly,” she assures him. “If he were not, I’d beat it out of him.”

Tobin smiles faintly before looking back at the man on the table, covered in thick bandages, making him look more like a corpse than a living thing.

“Perhaps not all Lannisters are as bad as they seem,” Masha ponders.

“Perhaps,” Tobin agrees pensively. “You know, I heard from soldiers who came from Riverrun some time back… one of them said the Kingslayer’s taken the castle without bloodshed. Only man who’s died was the Blackfish, and he chose to fight, I hear, so he’s had it coming no matter what the Kingslayer decided to do. But no smallfolk died after he arrived. Imagine that, Mother. Imagine if that were all true, in the light of this… darkness.”

“Fate’s the Stranger’s fellow. Think about it. How’s it that someone like him manages to make sure our kind does not die for the castles of the fancy folk when no one else ever did? Look at the one who burst through the city sitting on a dragon. She also wanted a fancy castle, and now it’s all in ruins for no one but the dead to inherit.”

“And he lived.”

“Because he let live, perhaps.”

At least she would like to believe.

“Perhaps.”

“Who could have guessed, really?” Masha chuckles tiredly. “The Kingslayer… Jaime Lannister.”

“No one. And I think that’s actually the point.”

Because for once, the bold wrestled the smallest of victories from death itself, but no one is meant to see it grow just yet, or else it would break.

And that future, however fragile, deserves a small blessing, too.


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime wakes up in a new world he yet as to get to know, but his darkness keeps haunting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around for the next chapter and thank you so much for the kudos and comments. They are all very much appreciated. With fix-it fics, I always feel like going out on a limb a bit, fearing that I will drift into territories I actually don't want to poke my finger into.
> 
> Nevertheless, here it is and I hope you will enjoy the next installment.
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Jaime pries his eyes open slowly, but the faintest beam of sunlight already has him moan with pain as though it was a blade cutting right through his skin, all the way to the dark core residing within.

 _Pain_ , he thinks to himself absently. How is there pain?

_How is there light?_

A shiver runs through him, stirring up muscles Jaime believed had gone to sleep forever, and with it, other parts of himself are forced into motion. Jaime’s head shoots up as images flare up before his eyes and scourge themselves into his eye sockets, and then deeper still.

They burn, burn, burn and Jaime just wants them to stop, begs for the darkness, but the light keeps stabbing at him, creating vivid images in his head, of that which was. The fire, the bells, the green flames eating away at the city he meant to defend, Euron, the Red Keep, Cersei, her tears, her begging for a life that would not be, the crypts, his regret, his acceptance of the darkness, the inevitable, the end.

_Just as the boy told me, but…_

“There, there, easy now, _easy_ ,” he can hear an old woman soothe him. Jaime leans his head to the side, away from the light which keeps embedding itself into him without permission. Disoriented as Jaime is, he nearly feels his stomach turn alongside his body. He swallows back bile whereas his eyes try to adjust and begin to make out contours where there used to be darkness, so much of it. It feels as though Jaime was given new eyes that have to yet learn to see the world but don’t know how.

“Easy,” he can hear the strange woman repeat over and over, as though it was a song, but Jaime can’t hear music, he can only hear stone breaking, collapsing, he can only hear screams, so many screams, he can hear the dust settling in the sickening silence of the dead.

 _Is that the Crone perhaps, showing me the way into the afterlife?_ he wonders for a moment as darkness and light keep battling for dominance before his eyelids, pulsing like a frantic heart. After all, the Crone is supposed to guide the ones lost, is meant to show the way by holding up her lamp, her light. Jaime discards the thought quickly, however, because he can’t imagine that even if the Gods are out there, and if there is any justice they have after what they let happen to this city, that they would bother showing him the way.

_There is just darkness for me._

And the light is no more than a taunt, a sad promise that comes out as a chuckle, the promise of an end, so darkness may have him at last, for all time.

“Easy,” the voice repeats, though none of it is easy by any means.

_It never is._

He just keeps looking, waits for the darkness, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his eyes keep clearing and a mass of dark gains shape. An endless crypt in pitch black turns to a small chamber. A faint voice in the dark morphs into the contours of an old woman sitting by his side.

Jaime flinches when he can feel her touching him, but his body lacks the strength to fight back, only to recognize that she strokes some strand of sweat-soaked hair out of his face, gently, soothingly, not in malice, not in hatred.

 _Is this what awaits me after the darkness? Is that the comfort for some of my good deeds?_ he wonders, but reckons no one will give him the answer to that mystery hiding in plain sight.

“Easy,” the old woman tells him once more, pressing her hand just a bit more firmly down on his head to keep him from moving abruptly.

“W, w… where am I?” Jaime croaks, forcing the words out of his mouth as though his lungs turned to stone and dust, on the verge of cracking open.

“In a house in which you are welcome and protected. So listen to me and take it easy now. I don’t want your stitches to reopen after I did so well to keep them closed,” the woman tells Jaime, smirking at him with a kind of gentleness Jaime didn’t dare to expect to come his way from anyone in this world.

_How do I deserve… if…?_

Jaime looks down himself and can spot thick bandages covering most of his upper body, the only thing that should ever remind him of someone like Euron Greyjoy, who thankfully died nowhere near where that man wanted to be, stuck between sea and the Iron Throne, out of his element, unimportant, torn into the nothingness from which he came and to which he returned.

“S, _stitches_ … but I… the… the Red Keep,” Jaime mutters, furrowing his eyebrows as his mind keeps catching up to the present, still crawling its way out of the past trying to pull him down.

He died down there, in the crypts underneath the Red Keep, he knows that for a fact. Jaime held on to his sister as the world came raining down on them. He offered Cersei the one comfort Jaime knew he could give a woman too lost in her hate to see a way out. He gave her the one token of comfort fitting for a woman who long since had no future and yet held on to it till last, clawed at it with childish desperation as Jaime held her and told her to forget it all, to only focus on his voice, on him, on them. He was ready to be consumed by the darkness alongside her, because Jaime, too, was not supposed to have a future anymore. He died. Jaime felt the stabbing pain of rubble, debris, and stones crushing on his head to crack it open like an egg. He felt the old world collapsing under its own weight, and that was when he knew his days were counted at last, because he was part of that old world, not meant to be part of whatever may climb from the site of its own destruction.

_This was supposed to be the end… but was it?_

“The Red Keep is a very big pile of rubble now,” the woman tells him. “I mean, some of it is sill standing, but most… ash and stone now.”

Jaime licks his chapped lips. “The Queen?”

“Both dead,” the woman answers quietly, and if Jaime didn’t know any better, he’d be bound to think that there is some solace in her voice, a wish to comfort, as though she understood his pain and shared in it, but it can’t be.

Not for the Kingslayer.

_Not for me. I don’t deserve…_

“Both…,” he breathes, though he lacks the air for it. Jaime knew it when he saw her last, knew it was the end for Cersei, but it pains him still, that he did not succeed, that he failed, failed all over again, always fails, to protect and keep alive.

 _There is nothing more hateful than failing to protect the one you love_ , a woman once told him, and Gods know she was right about this, and so much more.

 _And Gods know that she is…_ Jaime wants to think, but his attention returns to the woman sitting next to him, to the light ghosting through her mud-colored hair with many silver streaks, to the fact that he is seemingly not dead, that this was not his end even though it should have been.

He opens his eyes to a new world tainted by the old, and as it appears, he is still a part of it, for now anyway.

“The Queen of the Ashes took the throne and just as she did, she was murdered by the man who came with her, this Jon Snow. Or so we’ve heard it whispered in the streets,” the older woman informs him, all the while continuing to touch him, stroke wet strands of hair out of his face, being tender, being caring.

And Jaime understands this world no more.

Is he dreaming? Is he dead after all? Because none of this can be. _None of it._

And yet, there is pain.

And yet, there is light.

“So is he… is he king now?” Jaime questions, having to labor very hard to get even those few words past his lips. “Jon Snow?”

“There is no queen. There is no king. There is no one but the Unsullied roaming the streets and killing anything that looks like it has Lannister blood in it. They’ve taken this Jon Snow and the Dragon Queen’s Hand prisoner because he’s helped him execute her, for all we know,” the old woman lets him know.

Jaime stirs up at that, chest heaving with shock, but she keeps him still, pressing both hands firmly down on his shoulders. “Easy, I said, or else you will reopen your wounds, you fool.”

“But…,” Jaime mutters, his muscles already suffering from fatigue despite the desperation he feels swelling in the pit of his stomach.

“The Unsullied were already in here before and didn’t find you,” the older woman continues. “They won’t be coming a second time, I’m sure of it.”

“I, I can’t put your lives at risk like that… I can’t risk anyone’s life anymore, I…,” Jaime insists, forcing every breath, every word out of his tattered, broken ribcage. He risked far too many lives already, failed to protect so many, and Jaime just can’t take it anymore.

_It’s too much. It’s all too much. Please._

“You are a funny man, believing you can even as much as stand. You take three steps in a row, you die,” the old woman chuckles softly, seemingly believing it a joke, when it is by no means to Jaime.

He has to get out of this house, away from that street, however far he has to go not to risk more lives. And then his brother.

_It’s all too much._

“If they find me, we all die,” Jaime argues through gritted teeth.

“If not for you, we’d all be dead.”

Jaime frowns at her. “W, what?”

“You remember my lad? Tobin?” the old woman questions.

“The soldier who rang the bells,” Jaime murmurs, nodding his head slowly as the young man’s face swims up before his eyes. How much he wanted to thank him for listening to his orders, how much he wanted to give him a reward deserving of the service he did for the living, but there was no time, and even that all came too late in the end. “I heard the bells ring. He did it… even if it was sadly all in vain.”

Because Daenerys Targaryen did not stop when she heard the bells. Because she wanted more than the city, wanted more than the Iron Throne, the Seven Kingdoms. She wanted revenge and power. Fire and Blood. She wanted more than anyone could ever give to her, more than she could ever hold. So in the end, Daenerys Targaryen was seemingly left with nothing but the ashes of her perhaps once good intentions, though Jaime wished she would have been anything else but this in the end.

He dared to hope, back at Winterfell, after the battle was won, that he was wrong in his suspicion of her, in the taunting images of her father swimming up before his eyes whenever he looked at his daughter. Jaime wanted her to turn out different than her father, wanted her to be more than the toss of a coin to decide on her fate and everyone else’s alongside it. Because daughters and sons should not be judged for the wrongs of their fathers and mothers. Jaime believed that and believes it still.

And after the battle was won and he saw and felt for himself that a dragon could also protect, could defend, could fight for the living and not just bring death, as he had experienced at Highgarden. Jaime wanted to believe more desperately than he would ever dare to admit now that he felt the fire brush against his skin again, saw towers fall, heard people die in vain. However, for all it seems, she lost too much in these stranger lands, her home that never was her home.

She lost most of her dragons, her children as she called them, she lost many soldiers in the war for the living, and in the wake of that war, she lost the man sworn to protect her, her best advisor from what Jaime heard. For what it seems, the one man who truly loved her without condition, till he took his last breath defending her. And then Missandei was executed at Cersei’s hands, and that was the last shred to reveal dragon scales underneath her skin, a cold yet burning hot call to burn them all making her deaf to the chime of the bells.

There seems to be a point, a line drawn in the sand, and you don’t know it is there until you reach it, not until you actually walked past it, because you only look ahead and never dare to look down. But once you crossed the threshold, here is no turning back, and only then do you realize that you lost so much that you lost yourself along the way. And once you are past that line, past yourself, you can do nothing but walk on and on and on, until every last bit of you is gone, is left behind, scattered into the winds. So that even the truest intentions turn to ashes in your mouth.

And it appears that this is a point even kings and queens, no matter their advisors, no matter the pleads of many for them to stop, can turn away from, even if they have the best in mind, believe that they will change the world for the better if only they walk just a bit further, just a little further still.

However, the greatest tragedy is that if kings and queens walk past that line, it is not just them who are lost. It is always the little people who are lost, those even easier to forget than those whose names will ring on for generations.

They are lost without thought, without memory, without remembrance.

They are the ash flitting away soundlessly.

They are the ash blown away by a new world forming on top of the old.

“Tobin’s found you in the crypts and brought you here, after the Imp’s sent him to get you. Tobin’s told me all about you which he knew. And it was enough to make me certain that you are worth protection,” the old woman adds, pulling Jaime away from the images of dragon fire and a woman lost that kept on losing, back to whatever this strange place is.

“I don’t know that.” Jaime shakes his head. He is fairly sure he is not.

_I could list you all my bad deeds and you would be running, woman. You are wasting your time on a man who should have died but apparently did not. But why?_

She laughs at that. “Then trust my judgment. I didn’t have a castle drop on me in contrast to you.”

“Do I have much of a choice?” he asks tiredly, the faintest of smiles fading over his face despite his pain, inside and out.

“Not really. I mean, even if you were stubborn enough to get to your feet to somehow get away, you’d only ever burden us with getting rid of your body. And then we may get charged for having kept you all the same. So you better stay put, saves us all the trouble,” the woman reasons. “Now lie back down and sleep. You need the rest.”

“My brother…,” Jaime groans, but she intercedes before he can make yet another attempt to get up and fail, “He’s imprisoned but alive. We know that much. There’s supposed to be a trial at some point, but they are still waiting for the other fancy lords and ladies to arrive here to pass the sentence. You couldn’t help him right now even if you wanted. So rest easy… however easy that is in our situation.”

“I thank you for your kindness, for… for everything.” Jaime swallows thickly, feeling a single tear roll down the side of his cheek.

“I thank you for everything, too, so consider us even,” she tells him, wiping the tear away with her bony thumb. “Sleep now. Those mornings only ever bring bad news and we had plenty enough of those by now.”

Jaime closes his eyes again and welcomes the darkness claiming him only moments later, the exhaustion having easy game to carry him far, far away and further still.

At first Jaime believes to be back in the crypts, back with Cersei, but she isn’t there. There are no stones falling down on him, no dragon skulls glowering at him menacingly, there is just him and his own darkness, nearing, nearing, coming closer and closer. Slowly, Jaime finds himself walking towards it, answering its call, because that is to where he was headed all along, just like the boy said, just like he always knew, that this was the best he could get.

_Because I don’t deserve…_

Suddenly, a noise. Jaime stops in his tracks, trying to find the source, but in the dark he can’t make it out, can’t find it as it echoes into the darkness, flits away over wet stone and unknown sharp edges, flitting away before he can grasp it, hold on to it. Jaime turns away from the dark path ahead of him and listens, tries to make out the source of the sound. He stands still for a moment and lets the darkness’s taunting whispers fade from his mind until he can hear another echo approaching. It is a voice, he is sure his time, and it is calling him.

But who would be calling out for him in the darkness? Who would follow him into the dark if left with the choice to go into the light instead?

Jaime makes a step forward in the direction from whence it comes, needing to know, needing to know with a kind of desperation he hardly ever felt. He scrambles over the sharp edges, nearly cutting himself, but Jaime carries on in the dark because he has to know who is calling in the dark, has to, has to, has to.

He stops dead in his tracks when the dark void above cracks open like an egg. Blue light seeps through its edges, a sliver that reminds him of a sword, like the one he once made a gift, a promise of an always that was never meant to be.

Jaime stumbles towards it, his muscles aching, his skin burning, his ears ringing with a voice that grows louder and yet all the more mysterious, all the more uncanny. He reaches for the crack in the dark with his right, but there is no golden hand attached to it anymore, there is only just his stump. And when Jaime extends it towards the blue light, it fades away, and he fades away with it.

And all darkness stays behind.

* * *

 

“Now, look at you, sitting and moving around without bleeding like a pig that escaped the butcher’s rusty knife,” Masha greets him with a throaty scoff as she makes her way over to the bed, balancing a tray with one hand.

Jaime smirks as he watches her approach, all the gladder to finally see the world from another perspective than lying on that bed. Too many nights he spent counting the cracks in the ceiling, wishing for a flash of blue he knows won’t ever break through the crevices in that broken roof.

_Because I only ever dreamed of it._

“All thanks to you, Masha,” Jaime tells her, brushing down his still aching, heavily bandaged sides with a strained smile. “You may have made for a good Maester, you know.”

She snorts at that, waving her free hand dismissively in his direction. “Maesters are bastards to my mind, hiding away in their grand Citadel, full of books and knowledge they don’t ever mean to share. Too much in love with ‘em books instead of the smallfolk in need of their healing hands.”

“You speak wisely, as always.”

“It comes with old age, I suppose. We sound wiser though we are none the wiser, actually. It’s all a big sham, let me tell you,” she scoffs, putting down the tray with hard bread and some milk down next to him on the small stand beside the bed. “Now, now, time to eat.”

“Where’s the hurry?” Jaime asks, picking up the cup of milk first. His throat is still sore from all the dust he inhaled that Jaime would rather only ever drink and never eat, but Masha already told him that he will have to swallow it down no matter what because that’s all he will get, so they will have to make do with the little they have in this strange new world that didn’t yet succeed to climb from the rubble of the old.

“We have plans today,” Masha informs him, busying herself with putting items from one place to another. Jaime never really knows what the purpose is, though perhaps that is the point after all, it is simply something she does to ease her mind, to put things in order in a world at such disarray.

“We don’t have to burn out that wound again, do we?” Jaime groans.

The mere thought of going through another such treatment makes his blood run cold in anticipation of the unbearable heat. While the wounds Jaime received at the hands of Euron didn’t kill him, they nearly did a number of times thereafter. Dirty blades and debris did the rest to make Jaime feel a kind of heat he only ever felt when dragonfire licked his skin, burning him up from the inside out. Though in the end, even that pain was nothing much compared to the agony of losing his hand. That pain was enough to make Jaime consider to just give up.

_Until she told me that I must live…_

Yet, the pain of having his wounds burned out again and again these past days only ever made him more certain that yes, he had to live. Jaime took a foolish comfort in this pain, because it reminded him that this was closer to what he found himself deserving of. Even as he grinded his teeth and bit down on the cloth Tobin put in his mouth to keep him from screaming as they followed through with the procedures, Jaime found it strangely consoling.

Pain means that you live.

And if you live, you still have a chance of paying back.

And Jaime knows he owes more than his life can spare to give, but that won’t stop him, it can’t stop him, even if all is meant to be in vain again, as that seems to be his natural condition, Jaime fears.

“No, the infection’s stopped for good, we should be fine so long you don’t act stupid and try to walk around or poke your fingers into the wound,” Masha assures him.

And for once, Jaime feels relief because as much as he finds himself deserving of the pain, he can’t say he really welcomes it, even more so because poor Tobin nearly gets hit by him whenever they have to follow through with the procedures as his body won’t listen to the mind when in such agony.

Jaime makes a face as he picks up the hardened bread. “Why would I do _that_?”

“I’ve seen people do it, don’t ask me why. Big fellow once prodded his sausage-like fingers in there so much he nearly bled out, I tell you,” she huffs, shrugging her shoulders.

“But why?” Jaime furrows his eyebrows as he puts a piece of bread in his mouth and washes it down with the milk.

“I don’t know. He just felt like prodding, I guess.”

“Well, I can assure you of that much – I won’t do _that_.”

Masha grins at him. “Good for you.”

“Then what plans would I have other than lying around and being useless?” Jaime jokes drily.

It was difficult for him, the first few days, to smile, let alone joke. Even while bedridden, Jaime felt like walking on eggshells, always having to be alert, not just of the Unsullied patrolling the city but because he knows that hospitality can easily be exhausted if you make just one wrong step. And the Gods know that Jaime made many wrong steps over the years.

However, Jaime came to realize that the two truly meant what they both said to him, that they would care for him and that they are not there to judge him or deliver him to the Unsullied so he may die in vain all over. Masha tends to his wounds and talks to him as though they were old friends. Tobin looks at him with a kind of admiration Jaime only ever saw on himself back in the days when he was a foolish lad, only recently knighted, glancing at the likes of Arthur Dayne, wrapped into the glory of the White, when Jaime didn’t yet know that the White was soiled from the very beginning. He doesn’t know how he comes to deserve it, but by now Jaime accepted their devotion to uphold that promise, for better or worse.

“Making yourself useful is a remedy to being useless, so that is what you are to do,” Masha tells him with her strange kind of resolution that nearly always makes Jaime’s lips edge into an almost smile.

“I’m all ears,” Jaime answers, taking a sip from the milk to wash down another chunk of bread.

“You will do me a favor and be nice to some visitors today,” the older woman lets him know as though it was the most normal thing in the world, when it is most certainly not.

“ _Visitors_. Are the Unsullied…,” Jaime asks, already feeling fright bubble back up, but she holds up her hands in a calming manner.

“No, they are busy down Silk Street because _of course_ the harlots are to blame for what their masters once did to them back in Essos by cutting off their stones and sticks,” Masha huffs, making a dismissive sound in the back of her throat. “Those are good visitors, but they annoy me and I want them gone.”

Jaime frowns at that. “How are they good visitors, then?”

“They are good people and I understand why they are here.” She shrugs.

He sighs. “Whereas I don’t understand because you keep speaking riddles, Masha.”

“There are some folks who want to see you, the Kingslayer. We may be able to hide you from the Unsullied, but it was only a matter of time until people would figure out that the man screaming from the pain of having his wounds burned out over and over again is someone they don’t yet know.”

Jaime nearly chokes on the bread upon hearing that. He takes a moment to listen carefully, and in fact, he can now make out voices outside, growing louder and louder, like horses chomping at the bit.

_That can mean no good._

So is that the day he awaits judgment for his crimes? Because Jaime can’t imagine that the people will show as much understanding as Tobin and Masha do. He is the Kingslayer after all, brother of the Queen who did them so much harm, the man who failed to have the wildfire removed entirely. The man without honor. Kingslayer. People only know him for that part of his finest act, that of slaying the Mad King, for that part of his personality, of his inner most self.

_Well, for that and standing with the Queen who betrayed them all so very much._

Perhaps it was wishful thinking on his behalf, to believe that he may make it through despite all that’s been after all and figure out a way to make good on all the bad he’s done and all the good he failed to do.

“No need to fret,” Masha reassures him.

“What’s going on out there – if I am not supposed to fret about it?”

“They all want to see the man who came back from the dead. You are quite the spectacle, Kingslayer. They want a good look at the man of miracle.”

“Then they should try to sneak into the prison. Jon Snow actually came back from the dead, I heard,” Jaime grinds his teeth as he sits up straighter, curling his arm around his stomach protectively.

Masha rolls her shoulders, wrinkling her nose. “Too tough to get into. You are within reach. They like that about you.”

He snorts. “Easy to have, you mean.”

_Unable to run away…_

“No, _approachable_. You look like any of us do, shaken through, dirty, bloody, and straight-up miserable,” Masha laughs.

“Well, they will certainly not wait long to demand their retribution for my sister’s acts… and my taking part in them… or not preventing them from happening,” Jaime says, licking his lips, pondering his words.

Masha gives him an annoyed look, but Jaime isn’t wavered by it, so he continues, “You like me well enough, but if some come in here to beat or murder me, Masha, just let them. I wouldn’t want further harm to come to you after all that you’ve done for me.”

Jaime would only hate himself impossibly more if those kind people were made to suffer for him any more than they are by having to keep his survival a secret as the Unsullied keep roaming the streets, looking for blood, for red and gold.

Against the odds of what he said to Tyrion in the tent, he cares about those people, perhaps even more than he did before, because he has their names, their voices now, and that makes him want to protect them even when he has nothing but this broken down, battered body to offer as a shield.

“And after all that I’ve done you expect me to just let you die?” Masha snorts. “You must’ve gotten hit in the head harder than I imagined.”

He sighs. “You know how I mean it, Masha.”

“I know how you mean it indeed, but you are a fool to believe that any of them want you dead. You are quite the spectacle, I told you. You have to listen.”

“Spectacle of _what_? Failure?” he scoffs.

Because that is the sad truth in the end, he failed over and over again. The bells? He had Tobin ring them and it didn’t stop Daenerys Targaryen from attacking. Trying to get Cersei to surrender? It came too late. By the time he was done with Euron, the castle already came crashing down. There was no time to negotiate anymore. Cersei? He couldn’t sway her, couldn’t get her to safety. Instead, he could only ever offer her comfort and a promise of a future he knew was not there long before he’d ridden away from Winterfell. At every step, Jaime failed.

_Even my finest act… what did it matter in the end, when all those people lost their lives to the flames?_

Because when Aerys screamed to burn them all and Jaime slit his throat to ensure the man would never rise again from the ash, Jaime remained deaf to the echo of that call, resonating all those years until they took root in his daughter. And Daenerys Targaryen carried out the call, her father’s original sin: She burned them all.

Masha shrugs at him, wrinkling her nose. “The spectacle of a lord who gave one or two shits about the common folk when really no one else did. That’s a rarity, let me tell you.”

“Again, you’d have more luck looking at Jon Snow,” Jaime argues, finding all of that folly or wishful thinking at best. “He killed the Queen so a whole nation may live, from what you told me.”

“As you did before, without a city burning first,” Masha points out to him, her expression surprisingly stern all of a sudden.

“But…,” he means to say, but the older woman won’t let him, seemingly fed up with this kind of talk already, “But they are looking at _you_.”

“And I wonder why.”

“Because they are the ones who were spared by the green flames thanks to _your_ map, thanks to my son and the brave soldiers who followed _your_ orders. Those who had family spared because my Tobin and the others went in there and dragged children, elders, mothers and fathers from their chambers, their beds, their burning houses, to whatever safety a city under siege could provide. It is those little blessings that want to see you now, want to look into the eyes of the man who granted those blessings not to turn to ash. Thanks to you more souls survived than would have, had you done nothing. And they’ll remember that. They do not forget the small blessings. They do not forget themselves because all others will, everyone else always does, but they don’t forget themselves, each other. And so they don’t forget you.”

Jaime looks aside, chewing on his bottom lip. “And more could have been spared if I had been successful to convince my sister of surrender sooner. If I had… if only I had…”

“And more could have been spared if the man now in the cell had murdered that woman sooner. More could have lived if someone had murdered your sister before she could viciously murder the Dragon Queen’s friend she had executed. More could have lived if Aerys Targaryen had never gotten into power. If there’d never been any Targaryen anywhere near the whole of Westeros. Many more could have lived if not for the men and women ruling over them,” Masha argues. “But believe me this, Kingslayer, of those who remain, they do not forget the blessing of just a single life spared. Because they know its worth when kings and queens never do, or even if they do… easily forget.”

“I wish I had done more, had saved more,” Jaime mutters, swallowing thickly.

He wished he was more of the man _someone_ once saw in him, only to have that image shattered when he rode away from Winterfell. That man may have saved more people, may have protected more and better, may have gotten his sister out of there sooner so she could have surrendered the city to Daenerys Targaryen without destroying King’s Landing, killing all those innocent people.

_He could have been so much more than I was and still am. But I couldn’t be that man, and a whole nation keeps suffering for it that I am simply not enough._

And Jaime hates it, hates it so much.

“I think we all would have liked to do more, run faster, go sooner, get more people to safety than we did. I would have liked to stitch up more and not lose them on my table, have them slip away through my fingers. Changes nothing about the past, changes nothing about it that they are dead. We can change the now, though,” Masha ponders, sucking her lower lip into her mouth. “So, will you see them so they stop pestering me?”

Jaime sucks in a deep breath. He knows this argument is no use. Masha made up her mind, and if he understood just one thing about this woman by now, then it is that she rarely moves away from her stand once she took it. “… If they want to, bring them in. After all, you asked me to make myself useful and I would not want to disappoint you”

Masha smirks at him before disappearing for a moment. Jaime can hear the wooden front door open and close, followed by the shuffling of feet. At least no bulky man, he can make out that much even without seeing the visitor approach just yet. So he may still have a chance not to get killed even if this is all a ruse and that person is about to stab the Kingslayer for his crimes once and for all.

_After all, Euron did a poor job at that, too, as he did with so many other things._

The old woman returns with a younger one in tow. Jaime studies the two with a frown. The young woman has a baby wrapped in a rough cloth that’s still over with stains and dust, bobbing it up and down before her rhythmically. A gash runs from her brow all the way to the line of her auburn hair. And the sight in its entirety only brings Jaime’s stomach to turn and curse for ever having eaten just a single bite of the stale bread. Because it makes him sick.

Because that is the reality of war, the reality of two people fighting over some metal chair, some castle, some stretch of land. Mothers and children suffering, mothers and fathers with blood running down their faces, children who have seen and felt horrors beyond grief.

_There is nothing heroic in a war against the living, it’s just that simple._

And Jaime would have hoped that this was the lesson they took from fighting the living dead, but in the end, the world seems to be a cruel place where no one will ever recognize this reality, standing there, covered in dust and dried blood from wounds that will leave scars.

 _And she got lucky, for what it seems_ , Jaime thinks to himself woefully. Because she still has a child that’s alive and breathing. Not everyone enjoyed that fortune, and that is the reality no one likes to see, let alone speak of.

_It’s not a good story._

However, those thoughts turn to dust the moment on the young woman catches sight of him and rushes up to Jaime stiffly sitting on the bed. He stares wide-eyed as she grabs his left wrist and squeezes it tightly, all the while cradling her baby close to her chest protectively.

“Thank you,” the woman mutters. “Thank you so much.”

Jaime studies the petite woman, not sure what to make of all this. He expected to be cursed, like he’s always been cursed for his acts, for the man he was, the man he still is. And here is now a woman telling him thank you, looking at him with fondness?

_For what? Why? How?_

“Her house was right on an X,” Tobin’s mother explains to him, crossing her arms over her chest. “My boy got her out short before the whole neighborhood went up in green flames.”

Jaime looks back at the woman before him. She offers a gentle smile through the unshed tears. “I thank you. My baby boy and I live because of your map.”

“I am glad you are alive,” Jaime says, swallowing thickly. “So glad. It is a blessing.”

A small blessing, and yet one that holds future, hope, one he didn’t dare to see past the darkness of the void Jaime thought awaited Cersei and him in the crypts, a space of futures that are none, children that are none, just darkness, unending.

“A blessing, yes,” Masha agrees, smiling at the other woman fondly.

“But you should thank Tobin and the others far more than me,” Jaime argues. “I hope you are aware.”

“I thanked them already, will for the rest of my days, but now I want to thank you, too. My little one would thank you as well, if he knew what was going on or how to speak,” she says, nodding at the bundle in her arms with a warm smile. Jaime bites back tears as he sees the baby peacefully snoring.

It reminds him, if only for a moment there, of a life that never was that died alongside his sister in the crypts of the Red Keep. And while he can’t be sure because there was no time, Jaime was no longer convinced that she ever was with child, as Cersei did not yet show the way she did when she had children before. Perhaps it was her own wishful thinking of a future beyond a mother’s grief, maybe it was both their wishful thinking that this time, this child would get to live, but there either was no child all along or if there was, it ended with its mother, with the city, with the castle she could never leave until it was too late.

However, looking at that small child in front of him just now, despite his own grief for that little blessing never having seen the light of day, Jaime is thankful that this one did. Because this future matters, and this future is good and pure and he just hopes it will get to see brighter days beyond the smoke and settling dust.

“What are you names?” Jaime asks quietly.

“The name’s Rosy and this is my little Will,” she lets him know before turning back o Masha with a smile, “Imagine it, the boy’s slept through most of it.”

“Did he? Is he deaf?” Masha laughs.

“Not at all, but he just slept, is all I can say.”

“Let’s just hope he had good dreams despite it all.”

“At the very least he still has a chance to dream. And that’s also thanks to you,” the young mother says, turning back to Jaime. “Your map saved lives. You and the soldiers did.”

“I am… I am grateful that… that it worked,” Jaime says, struggling for the words to express just how thankful he is. Because there is the proof, living, breathing, snoring softly, that he did not fail completely, that not all was in vain.

Because at least those two lived, and from the sounds of it, more did. And they count, they count more than Jaime ever dared to hope.

“I think that’s enough now,” Masha decides. “There’s still a bunch who want to see the Kingslayer before they leave me in peace. This is going to be a long day.”

Rosy gets back up. “I wish you all the best… Ser Jaime.”

“And I wish you the best, too, the both of you, Rosy.”

She smiles at him. “I hope to see you around.”

“Not going anywhere for a while, I’m afraid,” Jaime chuckles nervously.

“Good, we need more people like you in our streets,” Rosy says before walking back to the door. Masha squeezes the woman’s shoulder before guiding her out of the room and out the door before sticking her head back into the chamber where Jaime is. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“Let’s see how long it takes for one of them to want to punch me, then we talk again,” Jaime huffs, wiping a tear away, though he can’t help an honest smile this time.

“Well, who doesn’t want to punch a Kingslayer?”

“Couldn’t begrudge them for it.”

“Exactly. So let me fetch another.”

He sighs. “A long day indeed.”

And so, Jaime finds himself visited by strangers in the following hours, though most of them act as though they shared a life with him they never did, as though he’d been their neighbor for many years. They tell him of what happened that day the city burned, they tell him how they got out, where they hid, what they heard, tasted, what they felt. They share with him their stories and Jaime listens, takes it all in, whatever they want to tell, want him to know, he listens to the stories of the small blessings. Some share in who they lost but always add who they were able to save thanks to the map, thanks to Tobin and his men, thanks to him. Jaime listens, tries to understand, but past a certain point he simply cannot fathom it, cannot grasp it, despite his efforts to the contrary. Because no matter how often he hears the same story over and over, no matter how often they tell him their thanks, Jaime thinks he is just about to wake up from a fever dream.

Just that he does not.

Because he is wide-awake.

Because this is the now and he is bound to live within it.

Because the little blessings passed their judgment.

And they showed mercy.

“… I don’t understand why they celebrate me more than your son and those brave soldiers who got them out of there in the first place,” Jaime says to Masha once the last visitor left at last. Fatigue already clutches at him tightly, but Jaime finds his muscles tingle with a content kind of tiredness for once.

“Oh, my son is already a legend, fret not. Be sure he’s getting full of himself soon enough and believe himself the next Arthur Dayne,” Masha huffs. “But you? You are the extraordinary here, I can only repeat that.”

“In how far?” Jaime wants to know. He drew some X’s on a map, passed it on and then nearly died getting into a collapsing building. That is not what he considers _extraordinary_ , not after all he’s seen on his journeys, after all he went through.

_I’m just a man with one hand who survived against all odds._

“You are the first lord who’s cared about them and them first. Common folk may be common, but we are not entirely stupid. We know the difference.”

“It was the least I could do,” Jaime argues. He only ever wished he could have done more than that, not just for them but also his sister, for everyone, but that was seemingly always his condition, to only step in once it’s almost too late. Like he should have slayed Aerys far sooner to prevent the grief Jaime reckons he should have tried to get into the city before that day, should have been smarter not to get caught.

_But then I would have had to leave her even sooner, and I couldn’t… I hardly could back when I did. Had I looked back just once, I don’t know what would have been._

Jaime shakes his head, discarding the thought quickly. He can’t have it, can’t bear it, not now at least.

“And that least saved all those people who were eager to see you today to say their thanks. You saved more than most others did these past few days, and had you been given a little more time, you may have saved us all, who knows,” Masha thinks out loud, looking over at the table where Jaime knows she treated many people like him. But unlike him, not everyone who bled on that table survived. And yet, a small part of them lives on in that table as the blood became part of the wood, became part of this house still standing.

“Well, Jon Snow freed you of a woman who’s gone mad with grief and power,” Jaime points out.

“And he came riding into the city to fight by her side until he saw that _perchance_ she was not the savior he believed her to be. His men murdered us, his men raped mothers and their daughters, burned down our houses, robbed us of our homes… Even if he did what likely was the necessary in the end by killing her… They were under his command and he failed to keep them from doing this. He failed… he failed us,” Masha argues. “And you? You had no single man under your command and still won, however small the victory may have been in the great scheme of things. He came here to take the city for his Queen, you came here and tried to save it despite your own.”

“Still,” Jaime insists.

“We will thank this Jon Snow in due time, rest assured.”

She looks out the window, lost in thought for a moment, until a smile creeps up her lips.

“A Queenslayer and a Kingslayer as the saviors of the world that we know… pfft, still hard to believe.” She shakes her head, looking back at him. “But oh well, I suppose that’s the new world now.”

“This world is a strange place.”

“Maybe Kingslayers are better friends to the smallfolk than the Kings they slay have ever ever been,” Tobin’s mother concludes. “And we were just too blind to see it all along.”

“One would hope.”

“Hope’s all we got now anyway,” she says, taking a drink from her wooden cup sitting on the table that also saved some many small blessings. “Here’s to hope for not another shit king or queen.”

“I will gladly drink to that,” Jaime huffs, chugging down the rest of his milk.

And only to himself, he also drinks to mercy for the undeserving.

Because there are two people currently in the cells who are now seen just like him, or perhaps even worse.

Queenslayers. Kingslayers.

If Jaime of all people was granted mercy, they should deserve it all the more, right? For all their little blessings that would be ash if not for the atrocity of one act, of one life taken.

But all Jaime can do for now, truly, is to hope.

And that scares him, because Jaime fears he unlearned it, that he left the last bit of his hope back at Winterfell.

_With her and her alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, I included the bit on Cersei's pregnancy because I just don't understand how that woman didn't have an actual baby bump the last we saw her because she was like... in her fifteenth month, or so it felt, waiting to squeeze out either a barrel of red arbor or an elephant and I felt it needed at least some addressing to move on from it because I don't want to dedicate much of the narrative to the maybe-baby and the implications that may have for JB. They have enough other shit to work through. 
> 
> Since I continue to have a growing suspicion that book!Cersei may come to mirror the historical figure of Mary I of England aka Bloody Mary in the end, I continue to uphold the belief that the show did away with a miscarriage or a non-prencancy reveal for... reasons... whereas we may still get something on that in the books, if they ever come... which is by no means certain... because GRRM is being a bitch. 
> 
> Either way, I reserved for myself the right of ambiguity here, to at least give it a spin and not make this about the maybe-baby for Jaime because I just don't know how to really make it factor in if I uphold the premise of his motivations as per what I started to sketch in the first chapter.
> 
> So yeah, just as a heads-up. :)


	3. Day of Judgment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion faces the lords and ladies of Westeros for his crimes, knowing that it is more than his life he has to defend, but to his great shock, he soon finds more on the line than he hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around and for all the lovely comments and kudos. I am so relieved that the story seems to hit the right tune for you! It makes me very, very happy.
> 
> Please bear in mind that I try to stick rather close to the happenings of the show in that regard, even though I did not understand the logistics or logic of that trial, so this is also the attempt to make sense of it in the context of my story. 
> 
> Also, FYI, I know we didn't have Brienne's POV just yet, but be sure it's coming.
> 
> Either way, I hope you'll like this chapter. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Tyrion knows his days are counted when he is put in chains by men who followed the Breaker of Chains once, the woman who burned them and never wanted to see others wearing them ever again.

He knows his days are counted when the door to prison cell opens and there is no sense of relief in his bubbling up in belly, only the dread of what waits beyond threshold.

Tyrion knows his days are counted when he walks past rubble and blood smeared walls, some older, some more recent, and all he can do is keep walking with a bowed head – because he may not have slit a single throat but this is still he blood he feels drying on his hands.

He knows his days are counted when he hears the mockingly tranquil whispers of the trees leading to the Dragonpit, of those few that remained after Drogon breathed fire over them, setting most ablaze, promising growth and rebirth when he knows there is no such thing for him.

Tyrion knows his days are counted when he feels all dread leave him as he keeps being pushed forward by Grey Worm and instaed feels a strange giddiness in the pit of his stomach. Because it just seems to confirm what he already knew: There was a Mad King, there were Two Mad Queens battling for dominance, and he was the fool who didn’t let go of either on until it was too late and not just him but everyone and everything was snapped in two, making him the maddest fool of them all who truly achieved nothing in the end.

He really has to try hard not to laugh when the familiar shapes of the Dragonpit come into view. Tyrion finds it strangely fitting, to be brought to this place of all places to face judgment, to have his days counted at last.

Because this is the same destination that once should have marked their unity as a nation but only ever marked the beginning of this most tragic ending. That day, he told his sister that he believed in Daenerys, in the world she meant to create, hoping to sway Cersei to side with them against the living dead instead of with her own hatred and ambition alone. That day, he signed away so many lives unknowingly.

The Gods know how wrong Tyrion was on those accounts, each and every one of them. Because the former Lord Hand did not dare to believe in the world his Queen would be willing to _destroy_ first. He did not believe in himself to be willing to bend so much out of shape and let so much slide because of his undying faith in her. Tyrion was in love with the image he had created over time, of the world she would bring about. It was beautiful, even more radiant than her. However, ash soon darkened its image until it collapsed into the remains of the city, leaving nothing but broken shards of a cloudy mirror, blind to the vision of the world it reflected all along.

_And I ever dared to accuse my brother of loving such a woman despite knowing better. I should have known better, I knew better, longer than I cared to admit, longer than I made excuses for it to Varys and everyone else. And yet I followed, and yet I let her torch the land, the people, herself, until nothing remained of what once was the better world we meant to build together._

He failed to protect his Queen from herself, from her worst impulses, nurtured by a life that treated her without mercy for longer than most people will ever know. Daenerys Targaryen died as she lived, yearning for a place she could never reach, always restless, always on a quest, never having found a landing place to call her home, never having found a place to stay. Because the home she saw, gleaming like a red gem at the city’s heart, she could not get it through the means she had at her disposal. His Queen burned those red doors down before she entered through them to leave just charred wood and broken promises. And Tyrion didn’t see it, he let it go that far and further still.

Because he believed and closed his eyes and dreamed away.

And now Tyrion is meant to defend himself when he knows he is guilty of all charges, guilty of hundreds and thousands of lives – _and another one more_ – taken, burned, charred, buried under rubble and stone, the remains of a city that once stood proud and strong against any foe that came to its walls.

He is guilty as charged, so how could he protect himself, claim innocence when Tyrion knows for a fact that he is guilty?

All those days of silent contemplation didn’t bring him anywhere near an answer. In the end, it was all overshadowed by his worry for his little secret, the one Tyrion had to give over to someone else to keep in his stead. The one good bit of himself that remained and stood out against the rubbles like a red gemstone gleaming with just the faintest shimmer of hope.

_And I hope my secret fares better than I likely will. I would even dare pray for it, even though the Gods seem to have left us long time ago._

When Tyrion is led into the arena, he takes a moment to look around, listens to the sound of the banners and pavilions swaying in the light breeze coming from the West. Temptation almost gets the better of him to close his eyes all over and dream away, if only for a moment. Because he is most certain that when he lifts his gaze to look at the people who came to his judgment day, he won’t find a single friendly face amongst the judges, the jury, and the executioner grinding his teeth standing next to him with arms folded in his back.

However, Tyrion knows he can’t close his eyes to the truth, not anymore. So he lifts his head, however heavy it may feel, and looks at the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. To his left, Edmure Tully, chewing on his bottom lip, on the other side there is young Robin Arryn, though he looks nothing like Tyrion remembers him, the boy who wanted to send him through his wicked Moon Door. An unfamiliar face in Dornish attire is seated next to him, likely the new prince. And on that same side, Yara Greyjoy looks on as grimly as he would have imagined, as does Lord Royce. None of that surprises Tyrion.

What catches him off-guard, however, is the heart beating shallowly under the center of the pavilion. Because there are not only familiar faces but also those that look upon him with mildness. Good Sam, nervously looking around, Davos Seaworth, offering a warm smile, Gendry Baratheon, too, and then at last, the Stark children safe for Jon Snow, who, as Grey Worm informed him, would not get to come along for his betrayal towards their Queen.

On one face Tyrion’s gaze lingers a moment longer, on that of Ser Brienne of Tarth sitting right next to Sansa, tense as a crossbow short before being fired, but Tyrion can only duck his head, fearing that if he were to look at her for much longer, she may see right through him, and he can’t afford that, no matter the costs.

_If only I could tell you now, Lady Brienne, of him, then maybe, just maybe…_

But now is not the time, Tyrion knows this. He has to keep that a secret, has to keep that one gemstone hidden from view, or else all will truly have been for nothing. Because Tyrion can’t afford to lose that last bit of himself after so much already went up in flames when he saw a city burning down to ash.

It takes him some time to understand what this is all about, but once Tyrion grasped it, he has to try hard again not to laugh at the sad ridiculousness of it all, how a nation that once stood united against the living dead cannot stand together for the living for just a short amount of time. They are having petty fights instead, about who stood with whom, who swore to whom, when it should be about this city, its people, about those who died, those who lived, and how to move forward going from here. Yet, that’s not what those talks are about, they dance around different issues, but turn in endless circles nonetheless. And Tyrion doesn’t know whether to laugh or weep for it. Because if he were sitting in one of those chairs right now, he knows he would do just the same.

_And isn’t that truly pitiful? Isn’t that why we are all failing at the game of thrones? Because we still think of it as a bloody game when we all, truly, should know better?_

Those talks, they become more and more of a blur to Tyrion as they continue, even his own words sound like the echo of the man he used to be but is long since no more, casting the smallest of shadows against walls torn down. He finds himself tired, tired not just of their words, his own words, their fighting and speeches about who they were with, whose side should win, and what to do with Jon and him for their shared crime, their shared betrayal.

Tyrion spent so much time in his cell thinking, worrying, and thinking all the more, about what he could possibly do to shoulder some of the guilt he has to bear, what small remedy to offer to a nation laying in ruins.

And it is this desire to repay the debt, as Lannisters are wont to do, that makes him speak despite his fatigue, despite his wish to remain silent and face judgment as he deserves. Because Tyrion knows this is long since no more about Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen, about Edmure Tully or Robin Arryn, Lord Royce or Yara Greyjoy. It is not about that, not at all.

_This is not about us, don’t you see? Don’t you see? Or are you just as blind as I am!?_

It is about what it should have been about all along: this land and its people.

And Tyrion hopes, hopes so very desperately, that he can make good on the promise he made Jaime swear to him, but now seems to have to uphold on his own: to keep the city safe, to ring those bells, to end this war, the suffering. And if that means trying to get them a king who will not be malicious, who won’t be cruel, who won’t be rotten to the core, then so be it, then that shall be his one fine act, even if Grey Worm will chop off his head for speaking just one more word.

_Or so I reckon, looking at him._

Inside Tyrion’s mind, the mist of his contemplations seems to lift at last as he lets his gaze wander around once more, to look at those people meant to decide, and in that way, the only people up to choice of who should lead those efforts to rebuild a nation from the ashes of old. The fog breaks apart and shatters to milky glass the moment he locks eyes with the boy who knows everything, the boy who learned to fly on the wings of the stories of the world.

It is then that Tyrion comes to the conclusion that this is the most rational choice, however outrageous it may seem. _It’s him._ It is the boy who knows the many stories of the world, who is the living memory of all the good and all the bad they brought into it, and will continue to carry into past, present, and future. That boy will know how to rule, Tyrion grows more and more convinced as he thinks about it, because Bran doesn’t desire. And he won’t echo beyond his own grave because he will not father children who may turn out terrible. He may be just the right example of what being king or queen should be about again, about being the man or woman the country needs, at that time, to heal. Yet, once it’s done, another will take the crown to tend to other wounds, ease other pains. That’s how it should be, Tyrion decides. Brandon Stark may be just what the country needs to flourish again after all that destruction, after all of that agony, a man who will remember it, a man who will keep those stories without embellishment, to remind them of their best and worst deeds for all times.

_That must be it. That has to be it,_ Tyrion tells himself over and over as plans start to form and gain shape like the clouds drifting by above his head.

Thus, the man known as the Imp does what he does best, he gives a speech no matter the consequence, no matter the stares, hoping that he can somehow sway this small gathering in favor of a king who will, at the very least, never put his own ambitions before the people. Because Bran doesn’t have ambition, doesn’t have much of anything left to feel, only knows so much more than a single man can bear, and despite being broken, does not break under the weight of that knowledge.

Tyrion gives it all he has, lays every ounce of power he accounts to his talent in speech into the words he speaks as he sets the stage for the one man he dares to hope won’t do wrong by the people.

And looking at the members of the council as he makes clear who he believes should be made King amongst themselves, Tyrion dares to believe that he may have succeeded to sway them one last time, one last time for good. And if he does, Tyrion can keep his promise for once, can make good on a promise that is now his to bear, his oath to keep.

“… But I ask you now, if we choose you, will you wear the crown? Will you lead the Seven Kingdoms to the best of your abilities from this day until your last day?” Tyrion asks at last, looking at Bran, hoping that he can make just that bit right, do that bit for a realm he helped bring to its knees, so it may rise again.

“… No,” Bran says simply, and Tyrion feels all around him collapsing.

“ _What_?” he gapes. That was his last chance, his last hope to leave behind not the worst of stories of himself and others, and now the boy says simply no?

_Why? Why can’t I make even that small thing right?_

“That is not my role to play. It never was,” Bran answers simply. “Why do you think I came all this way? To be King? No, if you truly believe that, you haven’t listened carefully to the story I told you.”

“But you are the only one who…,” Tyrion tries to say, but Bran cuts him off, “There is another who’s cast kings down before. And it is his story I was to tell, still am to tell. It is him the people chose, and it is him they will follow if he so chooses at last.”

“The _people_ ,” Ser Royce scoffs. “I thought we had that nonsense already!”

He glowers over at Sam who only gives him an awkward smile in return.

“I won’t die at the blade of the smallfolk who would rather have him than they could ever want me or any of you. The people will follow him. That is all that matters. Someone who is meant to lead needs people who will follow him. And they will follow him. I know it.” Bran then turns back to Tyrion. “I know of that little secret you kept in the crypts, too.”

“What’s that about now?” Robin Arryn asks, leaning forward in his seat, and Yara Greyjoy joins in at once, “Yes, what was that?”

“Please,” Tyrion begs, shivering violently. He can’t lose that last bit of family he helped annihilate. His heart could not bear it. “Mercy.”

He can’t lose him, too, not now, not after all Tyrion already failed to do. His days are supposed to be counted, but not _his_.

_Please, please, please._

“What is that about? Answer now!” Yara demands.

“Tell them,” Bran urges him.

“I’m begging you,” Tyrion whimpers.

_Show mercy, please show mercy. Please, just a small mercy for a small man undeserving of it._

“Tell them,” Bran says again, his expression, as always, empty, saying nothing and yet everything.

Tyrion bows his head, drawing a shaky breath. It is no use, he realizes, he can’t protect anyone. All he loves, he seems to kill it or send it to its sure demise. His friends, his family, all dead or on the verge of dying because the _damned_ _Imp_ can’t keep his bloody mouth shut.

Tyrion bites back tears. _This just isn’t fair._

“I… I found a survivor in the crypts, after the siege, the pillage, the murder… my own… my brother whom I sent to his safe demise, hoping that he may get himself and my sister to safety somehow. I sent him into the city to ring the bells to prevent the killing, but it did not. And they didn’t get out… Cersei was dead when I found them in the crypts underneath the Red Keep, but he still breathed, barely so, but he breathed… he was still alive… I had a soldier get him out of there and tend to him. I don’t know if my brother still lives or if the wounds were too great after all, but he was alive the last I saw him… and I just wanted to keep him safe, so I told no one,” Tyrion says, tears standing in his eyes as he utters the words he meant to keep guarded, protected.

“What do you say?!” Grey Worm seethes, certainly tempted to take his weapon and slay Tyrion with it on the spot, only prevented by the audience, barely so.

“Ser Jaime survived?” Sansa stares at him, but then looks back at Brienne who is sitting at the edge of her seat, her big blue eyes piercing rightthrough Tyrion as though they were daggers cut out of sapphires. Jaime used to warn him of her gaze back at Winterfell, but only now does he recognize its intensity, its sheer power. And all he can do is bow his head in shame.

“He did,” Bran confirms. “And it is his name they whisper in the streets. It is his name they will soon shout.”

“Hold on!” Yara gapes. “ _He’s_ the one you are talking about? The one you’d leave rule to? This must be a joke, all of it!”

“The Kingslayer! How would we have _him_ as King?” the new prince of Dorne huffs, leaning back in his chair, finding all of this seemingly very ridiculous, on the verge of hilarity.

“You want to tell us that you’d rather have him be King than be it yourself?” Edmure scoffs. “Then I’d rather vote for myself.”

“No one’s asked you still, uncle,” Arya hisses, glowering at her relative, but then turns her attention back to her brother beside her, choosing to ignore the petty fights in favor of what really matters here.

“But he has the rights of it!” Lord Royce argues. “That man, if still alive… is the _Kingslayer_. Did you all forget?”

“I think no one ever would,” Tyrion interrupts harshly, gritting his teeth. He makes one step forward, but then has to take one back as Grey Worm blocks him, but Tyrion won’t stop speaking, not now. Because his brother does not deserve these words, he doesn’t deserve that at all.

_It’s my judgment day, not his._

“Yes, he is the Kingslayer, and yes, he has done some many bad things, for which he is remembered in a very dim light,” Tyrion says, licking his lips. “But you may also remember, Lord Royce, how he and Lady Brienne led part of _your_ forces into the battle against the living dead. You may remember how he rode to Winterfell to defend the living as a single man, threatened to be killed by the woman whose actions brought us all here together today. My brother did good and bad, like most of us have. But… despite his reputation suggesting otherwise, I believe he has done more good than bad. He gave command to have the bells be rung, hoping to sway Daenerys Targaryen to surrender. He instructed soldiers to move people away from the wildfire cashes woken from their slumber after Aerys Targaryen put them there years ago. He used his time to save as many people as he could whereas people like Jon Snow and I… just stood by and only acted once it was too late.”

They may all curse him, have him hanged, quartered or sent to the Wall, Tyrion no longer cares, but his brother? Jaime would have died an honorable man, and if he died with the soldier after all, he did so protecting the city more than any of the people currently present ever did.

Because Jaime came not to take, he came to give.

And what he gave was life, even at the risk of his own.

And so, Tyrion is now bound to defend that in the eyes of men and women who have hardly ever seen the Kingslayer for anything other than his reputation, the echo of his name.

“You can’t be serious!” Yara argues. “I won’t stand for it. First you have Daenerys Targaryen murdered and now you ask us to stand with _him_? Why? How?”

“Because I won’t take on the duty,” Bran answers. “It’s his. It’s always been his.”

“But he has no right,” Grey Worm insists, glowering at them.

“Exactly. The Lannister rule ended the same way that of the Targaryen rule ended. Why should he be made King after all that’s been?” Lord Royce adds.  

“For neither did I have any right to be King. And yet, you were willing to vote for me mere moments ago. If you trust my judgment as King, why don’t you trust it as the one telling you who is the better King?” Bran questions coolly. “I’m the Kingmaker, not the King. That’s what I’ve always been meant to be… just like this was what he’s always been meant to be. That is the story I know. This is the story to tell.”

Tyrion studies the people sitting in a half circle around him, only ever gaining some hope from the glances he exchanges with the likes of Ser Davos, Gendry, or Lady Sansa, because those people, at the very least, know the other side of his brother that most people won’t ever see, won’t ever know.

Even Lady Brienne makes him feel unease. If not for her great strength keeping her upright, he’d think she must be feeling very faint right at that moment, as tightly as she clutches the sword his brother once gave her. Tyrion feels a small surge of relief when he observes Sansa grasping Lady Brienne’s arm, muttering something to the blonde woman so she finally seems to breathe again.

“Let him come and choose henceforth if he wants to take on the duty that would have been his all along,” Bran demands. “I know where to find him.”

“Then tell us,” Grey Worm grunts.

“You would kill him if I did, I know that, too,” Bran argues. “I think our soldiers will find their way around the city just fine.”

“And what do we do until then?” Sansa asks uncertainly, looking at her brother for guidance.

“We wait for an old friend.”

* * *

 

Jaime brushes some dust away with his boot, looking around, nearly blinded by the light of the setting sun disappearing behind the remains of yellow stonewalls.

Standing before the lords and ladies of Westeros only ever brings back memories for Jaime, of how he stood before Daenerys Targaryen and Sansa Stark back when he rode to Winterfell to fight for the living. Though back then, Jaime felt strangely liberated despite his tension, because the worst that could happen would have been for him to die, and Jaime rode to Winterfell knowing that this would very likely be the end of his journey. In fact, his survival was what surprised him most, what gave him pause.

Because, as it was with so many things Jaime thought he knew, they did not happen.

Because she stood up.

Because she spoke for me.

However, it is not just memories of the past swimming up before his eyes as Jaime looks at the council gathered here today. He finds in front of him not just familiar faces but also those he knows have any reason to wish him dead, who despise him. Jaime only ever has to glance over his shoulder to Grey Worm to know for certain that this man would like to impale him on his spear and watch him bleed out slowly. He has no illusions about that, and Jaime can’t even say that he blames him for that bit, because Grey Worm sees in Jaime what Cersei did to the woman that man loved.

So no, Jaime doesn’t begrudge him for wanting him dead. What he begrudges Grey Worm and the Unsullied for is that they can’t seem to stop cutting down whatever may bear the scent of lion when the war is long since over and they all should simply grieve the dead.

However, all of that adds little to Jaime’s mind. Those thoughts are merely whispers in the dark, ringing hollow and flitting away fast. There is only one thought screaming, shouting, kicking at his walls from within, ever since he dragged himself into the arena, up the podium to stand by his brother’s side.

Because there she was and Jaime didn’t know how to breathe anymore when he caught her gaze.

Because there she is, right at this moment, and she won’t just fade away as her image did some many times these past few weeks, whenever he couldn’t help himself but call Brienne’s features to his mind, dared to get lost in his memories of her when staring at Masha’s ceiling with the many cracks in it.

Because this, right before him, glancing at him with bright blue eyes, is the reality Jaime pushed far, far away, past the cracks he stared at day and night, in his dreams that promised blue light at the end of a darkness that shouldn’t have an ending.

Jaime barely dares to lift his gaze, not knowing how to face her, how to look at her without forgetting the entire world around him, because that is what Brienne used to be to him, until he ran away, ran towards the darkness and away from the light.

So no, as familiar as some things seem, this is new, this is different, and the fright chills Jaime to the bone despite the sunny weather he still finds far too unfitting for this solemn time.

The soldiers were cryptic at best about the reason of his being summoned, when they came into Masha’s home and the woman was ready to hit them with a wooden spoon. Jaime only ever felt a small surge of relief when he learned that it was not the Unsullied that banged on Masha’s door but that it turned out to be those who have the direwolf in their banner.

_And what a twist of fate it is that I am glad to see a Starkman for once?_

Masha was worried, Jaime could tell, having watched her clutch that spoon as tightly as she could. Because against all odds, this woman came to care about him the same way he came to care about her and her son. Jaime can’t recall just what words he muttered to her back then, but they were enough to make Masha sit down while he stood, shakily so, and walked towards the men with the wolves in their banners and armors.

Tobin insisted on coming with him, reminding Jaime all too much of the young man he once used to be, before the White soiled him, before he became the Kingslayer. Bold and stubborn to no end, always giving others fright and grief. Jaime knew Tobin wouldn’t be convinced, so he only ever nodded at him, then at the Starkmen who permitted it, and so they walked down the streets.

Outside, Jaime saw hundreds of eyes watching him from windows and doors that were slightly ajar, and he nearly wept only to smile again to see some many spoons and other “weapons” readily pulled, though he only ever shook his head to signal them to stay inside and let him go.

And thankfully, the people, his little blessings, understood that it was not their time to rise again, but just the time to let him walk ahead.

Jaime convinced Tobin to remain behind once they came to the tree-lined avenue leading up to the Dragonpit. The young soldier Jaime owes beyond measure but also cares about so much more than he ever would have assumed rather would have walked all the way to the judges with him. Yet, Jaime wouldn’t want him anywhere near whatever judgment he is meant to face now, so he was glad when his utterances were enough to sway the young man, too.

Because Jaime is ready. He is now. He made his peace with it before, he can do so again. And he wouldn’t want the good people who have nursed him back to health, back to life, to see him throw away their little blessing, at least to their mind.

In a way, Jaime welcomes the idea of finally being judged because the judgment he chose for himself, to die in the Red Keep, to walk into the darkness, it didn’t lead him to where he thought it would. It posed more questions than it gave him answers. Instead, Jaime found himself in a maze of emotion, wicked thoughts and haunting memories, of hope and regret, and he knows no way out other than the judgment of people who should know what to do with the likes of him waiting at the center of that maze.

The one thought that breaks his will to face judgment is a single name, however, _her_ name. Because more than anything, Jaime would want to speak with Brienne just one more time, to explain himself, to apologize, to make her understand, but it seems that this chance was lost like many others.

His blessings may be used up at last, simple as that. Because there is only so many a person can have in a single life. And considering what he had, however short, Jaime knows he was granted more blessings than he could ever possibly deserve.

“… It’s a surprise to see you all,” Jaime begins, his arms still protectively curled around his healing stomach. “I never expected, let alone hope…”

“Neither did we, Ser Jaime,” Sansa tells him, offering a tensed smile that quickly fades as her eyes fall back on her protector sitting beside her, clenching her wrists, grinding her teeth, seemingly caught in a maze of her own, and oh, how Jaime wished he could walk her out of it.

_If only I could…_

“What… what is my purpose here now, if I may ask?” Jaime asks instead, coughing lightly to gather himself.

“You have a debt to pay,” Bran tells him.

Jaime looks at him, finding his muscles tense, just like they did back at Winterfell when he stood before Daenerys and Sansa. _So that’s what it is._ Bran will reveal it all now, what he’s done to the boy, and that will be enough to cut off his head at last. Jaime is only ever saddened that this will cause Tobin and Masha grief, after they undertook so much to see him be nursed back to health, and Tyrion, _Gods_.

_And of course Brienne…_

“What debt?” he asks cautiously.

“Servitude to the realm. Redemption,” the young man answers. Jaime shakes his head with a frown. “… _Servitude_. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Trial, punishment, death by the sword, retribution, those are the words he expected to hear, not servitude, not redemption, though.

Because you need to live to serve.

You need to live to redeem yourself.

_And you told me that there was no such life for me. Don’t you remember, boy? Aren’t you supposed to remember it all?_

“Brandon Stark was offered the honors of being our next King,” Tyrion tells him, standing a few feet beside him, shuffling his feet nervousy. Jaime would love to pull him close, into one last embrace, but he knows that now is not the time.

_And it may never be again._

“A good choice,” Jaime answers, blinking.

He can imagine Brandon Stark serving the country well. Jaime found that the least harmful kings and queens were those that lacked personal ambition. Robert may have been a terrible man who brought debt upon the Crown, a cruel husband and a bad father because he loved the image of a woman he once was set on marrying all too much, but he was not Joffrey, he was not Cersei, he was not the Dragon Queen. And perhaps the lack of appetite for anything is what makes this boy just the right choice for this realm in dire need of a good leader.

“I declined,” Bran then says.

Jaime frowns. “… Why?”

“Because I made my choice and now you have to make yours,” the young man replies.

“Is that… is that about my lordship? If you want my vote as the Lord of Casterly Rock, if only ever in name because I gave away the castle in the war, you shall have it,” Jaime argues, still trying to figure it out, to make sense of it all. But why would they care for his vote? He is a lord without castle, a knight without honor, a broken man with just one hand.

_What do I matter when you once told me that I had no future, boy?_

“It’s not your vote I seek, it’s your promise I want.”

“What promise?”

“To be our King at last.”

Jaime gapes, his lungs not daring to suck in the air filled with those words. “Me? King. I… I’m sorry, but… it appears my injuries have affected my hearing. Because that’s not possible. You told me…”

“I know what I told you, but I was wrong.”

Jaime just stares at him. “It can’t be.”

_Impossible, simply impossible._

He never wanted the Iron Throne, never sought the crown. Jaime didn’t slay Aerys for his own ambitions. He left the throne to Robert for just that reason. He hates politics that protect the few but never the many. He detested more often than not that which he was sworn to protect, hated the secrets it forced him to keep.

And even if not for all of it, Jaime knows he is not meant to be this man. He couldn’t even be the man who could have deserved that bit of peace back at Winterfell.

_A man who deserved her and her love._

If he can’t be that little, how is he supposed to be that much and more?

“Here we are, and so it is, and so it can,” Bran answers, unimpressed, unmoving. “It was always meant to be this way. You made me who I am so I could make you who you are meant to be. _That_ was your destiny before, and it is now time that you pay the debt you owe to the people you are sworn to protect for many years now.”

“What debt?” Jaime asks.

“I already told you: the debt of serving this country as its King. You stepped down and denied your chance when you had it, back when you became the Kingslayer. You could have taken the throne already then and perhaps that would have prevented a great many evils, though we will never know. What I know is that in this time, you had a chance to climb the Iron Throne but didn’t, and it is a man of that spirit who should have the crown, someone who does not seek it.”

Jaime swallows thickly. “All this time, I… you…”

“It’s always been about this. Will forever be. We needed one another all along so we could become who we are meant to be,” the boy tells him. “We both came all this way to here for this one purpose. Every step we took, it led us here, to this moment.”

“I can’t be King, that is… that is not right.” Jaime shakes his head. “I am not the right man for this. I have done…”

_You should know best, boy._

“I know what you have done and I find you worthy nonetheless.”

“ _Worthy_ …,” Jaime mutters, tasting bitterness on his tongue.

Worthy is not a word he assigns to himself, not anymore, if ever. Jaime hoped to be worthy of a quick death, but even that did not come to him easily when he rode away from Winterfell and into King’s Landing. After that, Jaime thought he was worthy of the darkness ready to consume him, but then there was light.

What is his worth in this world, then? Jaime doesn’t know, but he can’t imagine it measures that of a King.

“You are the man the people need, the man the people want. Then it doesn’t matter who you once were. Your golden lion days are done, Ser Jaime, but your days as King have only just begun, after all this time.”

“And who makes you decide, care to remind me?” the Dornish prince wants to know. “Why do we listen to any of you? Hm?”

“He is the one who has the memory of the world. If we don’t listen to his wisdom, to whose would we?” Tyrion argues.  

“Easy to say for you because it’s your own brother who’s suddenly meant to be King,” Yara scoffs.

“I say that after I would have elected Brandon Stark as King before, had he chosen to do it,” Tyrion retorts.

“What tells me that you didn’t plot with him?” she snaps.

“How would I have done that from my prison cell?”

“Tyrion, stop,” Jaime intercedes. It’s those petty fights that posed the beginning of greater fights, and Jaime has had enough of them all.

_It has to stop. This wheel has to stop turning._

His little brother bows his head, biting his bottom lip.

“You have no reason to believe him… or me,” Jaime then tells Yara. “But that is all I can tell you: until this very moment, I knew none of it. I still don’t believe that this is happening. My brother was imprisoned, so how would we have collaborated to achieve… whatever this is supposed to be?”

Yara mutters some incoherent curses to herself.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Jaime adds. “I truly did not.”

If the Gods are true and just, they would have granted him the one thing he asked for time and time again, lying in bed at Winterfell, to just leave it so, to let him be this and nothing more, but the Gods chose differently, if they have that power.

_Or at the very least, the boy decided otherwise._

“Which will you choose, Ser Jaime?” Bran questions, ignoring all of it except for the man standing before him in tattered clothes, wrapped in bandages, barely having escaped the clutches of sure death, barely having crawled out of the darkness he cloaked himself in for so very long.

“It’s not my choice to make. _They_ have to decide on that,” Jaime argues, shaking his head. “They are the council. I am… I am a lord without castle. A knight without sword… a man with just a single hand.”

“But you would choose it if they elected you?” the boy asks.

“They won’t, no one possibly could…,” Jaime insists, only to whip his head around when he hears his brother call out “I say aye” loud and clear, from the bottom of his heart.

He already means to raise his voice to shout at his brother for the folly, but that is when he hears another “aye,” this time from the ranks, and not from a man who’d have personal reasons to want to see him take that position. Jaime can only ever stare at the young Maester, the brother of the young man he fought side-by-side with at Highgarden. He can’t believe, can’t comprehend that this man would give him his vote, can’t believe that anyone other than Tyrion could possibly want him as king, would see him as worthy of the title. Because they are meant to despise him, each and every one of them, safe for his own brother.

_I am the Kingslayer, after all. Don’t you see? Don’t you see me?_

But they look at him and still more and more say “aye,” give him their vote, their voice, their hopes.

How can his ears not deceive him? Because all he hears is “aye,” aye for the Kingslayer, aye for the man who failed them, who failed to protect, who failed so many times, who did such a great many wrongs. This simply cannot be. Jaime must be dreaming, lying in Masha’s bed, thinking of the voice in the tunnel and the blue light that kept morphing into a familiar pale face.

_I must be dreaming…_

“I’m not sure I get a vote, but aye,” Davos Seaworth laughs, smirking at Jaime gently, nodding his head with a kind of familiarity Jaime thought he’d only ever shared with few, his family foremost, and a squire who grew to be a man… _and a woman who raised him to be such._

When eyes turn to Grey Worm standing next to Jaime, he reckons the Unsullied general will take up the spear and kill him, having had enough of this folly at last. Instead, the young man turns to him and studies him carefully through narrowed eyes. Jaime sucks in a deep breath to hold his gaze.

“Your sister took her away,” the young man says.

Jaime nods his head. “I know. I can’t take it back, can’t undo it… I can’t bring her back.”

“I know,” Grey Worm agrees. “We came to fight for our Queen. But she was taken away from us, too.”

“I know. And for that _many_ other died,” Jaime says, biting back tears. He is aware it is not a smart thing to say to the man with both the ability and the means to kill him on the spot, but it needs to be said, it has to end.

And none of the ayes for him as King, however ridiculous and far away it still is for Jaime, will matter if he does not speak on the behalf of the little blessings who brought him here, who stood by the doors, afraid of Unsullied soldiers to take more lives, even after the battle is long since over.

“Many others died I would have hoped you would have meant to protect, under your Queen,” Jaime continues, ignoring the tension tightening his aching ribcage to barely leave him any room to breathe.

“The Lannisters…,” Grey Worm wants to say, but Jaime won’t let him, “I am not talking about my sister. I am not talking about most of the soldiers, even. I am talking about mothers, fathers, and children. _Children_.”

At least the man has the decency to look down with what Jaime assumes to be shame.

“Children,” he says another time, barely audible. “This war has done terrible things to the defenseless, to which she also counted. She was left unprotected, but so were the people in this city.”

Grey Worm looks at him, his face a tight grimace torn apart by anger and a deep sadness.

“But where does it end?” Jaime asks quietly. “Where do we stop?”

“You want to decide?” Grey Worm scoffs, his features instantly hardening.

“I want us all to stop,” Jaime answers. “Enough have died, far too many have… the people of King’s Landing, two Queens, the woman you loved.”

“Careful,” the younger man hisses.

“They all died for no good reason. None of them did. So why do we keep fighting, keep people dying for no good reason? Where does it end?”

“You are asking me?”

“I am looking at you, am I not?” Jaime retorts.

“I could kill you.”

“I know you could. I know you want.”

“Then why do you ask me?” Grey Worm wants to know.

Jaime sucks in a deep breath, coughing lightly, before he continues to say, “Because when I look at you, I see a free man who decides to remain in a prison of his own making. Do you want to be here? Do you want to be part of this world?”

Grey Worm says nothing, just looks at him with a face unmoving, made to stone by something Jaime actually shares with him, the guilt of having failed to protect.

“That’s what I thought,” Jaime says faintly. “So… where does it end? How does it end, that maze, that ongoing suffering? If there is any place in this world you could choose to go to right now, would it be here? Is this where you wish to stay?”

“No,” Grey Worm says, frowning with what Jaime takes to be surprise at the ease with which that truth comes out of him.

“Then why do you?”

“Because you have to pay back,” Grey Worm says, his anger flaring back up again.

“And you can kill a hundred more and it won’t bring her back. Trust me, I know. She ended, for no good reason, her life ended for no good reason. And now you are supposed to carry on. How? I can’t tell you. You can only find out for yourself – for you and _your people_ , the Unsullied. All I will say is that you have the choice to be better than the men who used to take the decision away from you, those who kept you in chains.”

“Jaime,” Tyrion warns him, but Jaime knows this needs to be said, this has to be handled, and it doesn’t matter whether he is Kingslayer or King, Something or Nothing. What matters is that this is decided, here and now, so that the little blessings sitting behind closed doors and windows, clutching at their spoons and hammers, may have a chance to live after so much unnecessary war.

“Let him,” Jaime says, unfazed. “We all came here to make a decision. He is a free man, he can make one, too. He can go wherever he wants, wherever he believes he needs to go to get out of that maze.”

He won’t look at anyone other than the man he hates for so many lives taken but whose pain he can feel stabbing in his heart just the same way. If only the world were white and black, it’d make hate and love so much easier.

“What future do you choose, for you and your people? Jaime asks.

“… We will leave,” Grey Worm says at last.

“What?” an uproar goes around the arena, all except for Bran, who seems unsurprised by it all, though Jaime knows he shouldn’t wonder about it, after all, that boy knew before he ever brushed dust away before him, before he ever raised his voice to speak.

“We leave,” Grey Worm says louder. “We will leave this city, this land. It’s not our land. It won’t ever be.”

He looks back at Jaime. “I am a free man.”

“You are.”

“The Unsullied… my people are.”

“They are.”

“… So are you.”

Jaime blinks.

“We leave – you be King if you want. That’s no longer our concern.”

“… Thank you.”

“I think I might die right here and now from shock,” Tyrion mutters, clutching at chest.

“Shut up,” Jaime hisses over his shoulder.

He doesn’t consider this a victory at all, Jaime finds it the sad end of what could have been a better world, if not for so many people having died in vain, if not for the woman whose love seemed to have inspired hope in a man who thought he’d never have a future having been taken by the woman whose love was always a power of destruction and death. All of this is a testament of their failures to protect, to keep safe, and they will have to bear that for the rest of their days.

Attention soon shifts back to the others still left staring at them. Jaime only grown conscious of it now, somewhat irritated by what he tends to think is a begrudging admiration for having made that man made for war step down from continuing just that. Jaime looks at them, reminds himself of what most of them said, the one word he never expected to hear.

The last two people who remain to cast their vote are Sansa and Brienne. Jaime looks at them, not knowing what his feelings are anymore, too far lost in the maze of his own emotions and thoughts to even make the attempt to try to read them.

Sansa studies him for a long moment, but then turns to her brother and tells him that she loves him and respects his choice, but that the North must remain independent, the way it was thousands of years ago.

“Under that condition, I say aye, too,” she concludes, looking at Jaime, who only ever nods his head silently, despite the fact that he wants to shake it in utter disbelief.

His eyes finally stop at the woman he thought he’d never see again, and as much as it pains him, he keeps his eyes on hers at last, lets that blue pierce right through his heart like it did so many times before. Because Brienne was given the last word, the last choice, and after all he’s done, Jaime knows that this is where failure will meet him and cast him down all over. After all, she has any reason to despise him, from the bottom of her heart, for all that he’s done, and all the things he confessed to her, all the things he said and did to her. Her marking his failure, his downfall, it is strangely fitting to Jaime’s mind.

_Because that is what I deserve…_

“… I say aye,” Brienne says and Jaime feels faint for a moment.

“You have heard them, Ser Jaime. They have spoken, they have chosen you. As did the people who kept you safe before. And they have chosen you, too,” Bran says at last. “So will you serve us? Will you keep your promise? Your oath?”

Jaime’s eyes sting, waiting to awaken, but he does not awaken, because it is through this new eyes that he sees a world he never dared to believe to exist.

“If… if you’ll have me,” Jaime stammers, barely getting out the words.

“Then it is done. I shall be your Hand and you shall be our King,” Bran says, tilting his head to the side slightly, as though to look at the new world forming with the smallest amount of curiosity.

Jaime blinks at him in utter disbelief, still. “And that’s all?”

“That’s all,” Bran answers, looking back at Tyrion, who seems to know what he is now meant to do. The dwarf steps forward another time to declare: “… All hail Jaime the Honorable, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

And the chorus follows him as the other repeat after him: “All hail Jaime the Honorable! All hail Jaime the Honorable! All hail Jaime the Honorable!”

But Jaime doesn’t hear that anymore, he hears nothing, in fact, except for the light breeze rushing over the field, the great silence, the world taking a deep breath.

That is his judgment? That is his sentence?

_This is it?_

However, when he looks at the boy, there is no doubt in his mind that he means it just so, the same way Jaime didn’t dare doubt for only just a second when Bran told him that there was no future for him.

It all led to here and now he is meant to lead.

To where? Jaime doesn’t know.

He observes from the corner of his eye as the members of the council get up and talk, as though this was normal, as though this was already reality when Jaime still waits for it to be revealed to be no more than a fever dream and for Masha to press a cold cloth to his head, telling him to stop moaning so loudly.

“Jaime?”

He looks down to see his brother approach, still in shackles, looking perhaps about as bad for the wear as Jaime knows himself to look like, not at all kingly, he may add.

“It’s so good to see you alive,” Tyrion says in a shaky voice, tears now falling freely as any amount of composure melts away.

Jaime struggles to get on his knees, but at last he manages and is quick to wrap his arms around his little brother. He ignores the pain shooting through his sides as Tyrion holds on for dear life itself. He only focuses on the sensation, the texture of his brother’s unkempt hair between the fingers of his left hand, Jaime concentrates on sensations assuring him that this is no dream but reality, palpable, touchable.

“I thought that image of you in the crypts was the last I’d ever see of you,” Tyrion cries, shivers shaking his small body. “I’m so glad it was not.”

“I feared I’d seen the last of you, too,” Jaime whispers, out of breath, out of mind, because he feared for news to reach him that the council would rule for his brother’s execution, but that won’t happen anymore, will it?

_I am King after all… as mad as that is._

“I didn’t know if you lived past the day, but now I know,” Tyrion says. “And I am so glad. So, so glad.”

“Not all of us were that lucky,” Jaime sighs, nearly choking on the words.

“No, sadly not,” the younger man agrees. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m too, that I didn’t get there fast enough…,” Jaime mutters, but then Tyrion pulls away slightly to look him in the eye as he speaks, “Let’s leave that grief aside for now, shall we?”

Jaime nods his head slowly. He grieved so much that Jaime hardly knows how there was a time when he did not find his eyes clouded with the darkness of regret, how he ever walked through gardens inside his mind that weren’t mazes bringing him to stumble further and further towards his own doom and the doom of those he could not keep away from it either.

“… You are King now,” Tyrion laughs hoarsely. “Congratulations.”

“And I yet have to believe that to be true,” Jaime huffs, his lips curling into an awkward grimace, edging on disbelief.

“I think we both do,” the younger brother agrees. “But we have to get there. Because it seems to be the future now, whether we believe it or not.”

Jaime gets back to his feet. “We ought to talk to the Unsullied about your release, though.”

“I still hope you can find some spot for me on a council to convince them of my importance to the realm,” Tyrion laughs nervously.

“We’ll see about that,” Jaime says, squeezing the younger man’s shoulder. There are many things they have to take care of now, as it appears. Because Jaime now has more responsibility than he ever would have imagined.

_I am… King now. Seven Hells._

He wants to add something else, but it is wiped from his mind when the Starks prepare to leave the council meeting as well. Jaime gets back to his feet, ignoring the invisible spikes in his sides, and makes a few hasty steps forward towards them.

_Towards her._

The Starks turn to him, looking at the apparent future King of the _Six_ Kingdoms with mixed expressions, safe for that of the boy he pushed from a window, because his expression always is a thousand years away, for all it seems.

“I… uhm, I still don’t know what to say.”

“It was certainly a day full of surprises,” Sansa offers, though Jaime hardly notices her, hardly sees her, only ever hears her voice echoing in the back of his head. All he sees is the woman standing behind her, the woman he never even imagined to see again, not after what he’s done, not after he rode past the gates and didn’t turn back when he still could.

“… Most certainly,” Jaime agrees faintly. “I am… I am grateful. To all of you.”

“We trust our brother,” Arya tells him. “And so we trust his judgment.”

“Of course you do.” Jaime smiles faintly, but then turns his head back to the woman doing a poor job at hiding behind the three young people standing in front of her. “Lady Brienne, I…”

However, before he can so much as catch her gaze once more, Brienne tears out of her own stasis and walks past the small group, keeping her head so deeply bowed that it nears a hunch. Jaime turns his head to look at her walking away, for a moment thinking back to the last time they met in just that place, unexpectedly, and how he couldn’t take his gaze off of her back then either.

Last time they met in the Dragonpit, Brienne told him to fuck loyalty, because this was more important than Houses – and he followed her, but now? Now Jaime can’t even seem to get his feet to work.

_What a King I am!_

He is surprised when he feels Lady Sansa pat his arm lightly. “We all only learned today that you are still alive. It will take time.”

“… Right. Of course.” Jaime nods his head slowly, looking back at the girl with auburn hair, the future Queen in the North.

“If you excused us now? We have some urgent family matters to discuss, concerning our brother’s release,” Sansa tells him with a tight grimace, before looking back at Bran beside her. “And one brother now supposedly being your Lord Hand.”

The lad doesn’t look at her, though, just stares ahead into the light creeping over the trees beyond the Dragonpit, leaving Jaime to wonder whether he looks a past, present, or future right now.

“Of course,” Jaime agrees. “If you need any assistance of mine… let me know.”

Sansa and Arya nod their heads before the younger sister grabs her brother’s wheelchair and pushes him ahead. With that, the Stark children make their way out of the Dragonpit, as does the rest of the council, one by one. Jaime has no illusions about it that many are more than unhappy with the choice, but they gave their vote when no one forced them to say “aye,” so he reckons the acts of retribution will wait at least another day.

“My, my, what a day that was,” Davos Seaworth says as he approaches alongside young Gendry Waters, now Baratheon.

“Not at all what I expected myself, I will admit,” Jaime agrees with a tight smile tugging at his lips.

“One could see it on your face… _my King_ ,” Davos points out, hands folded in his back, offering kind smiles Jaime can do nothing but take comfort in right at this moment, because that smile seems familiar enough, and they come from a man who Jaime has no doubt has more honor than most.

“I’m only King once I am crowned, until then… I believe with caution,” Jaime tells him, which has the older man chuckle throatily, “Might be a good call.”

“I’d hope so.”

“It’s good to see you alive, by the way,” Davos says with a small grin. “After all, we all thought you were dead. First time I see someone come back from the dead without the aid of magic.”

“Sometimes I still find it hard to believe that I am apparently not dead,” Jaime answers, laughing nervously.

“Well, we are at your service now,” Davos then says, nodding at himself and then at Gendry standing beside him, who makes an affirmative gesture.

“I’ll need all the help I can get, so thank you… and I may warn you that I will likely take you up on that offer,” Jaime huffs.

Davos grins again, but then his expression falters, becomes much darker, more worried. “Do you have any idea about what will become of Jon Snow now?”

“… At some point I tend to think that I will entirely rely on my new Lord Hand to handle that matter. Brandon Stark should know what’s best, right?” Jaime sighs.

“One would hope,” Davos agrees, letting his gaze wander to where the Starks are becoming shadows fading into those of the trees beyond the Dragonpit, softly dancing in the breeze, to unfamiliar tunes that hold small promises of a future yet to come.

“Hope is all we got, for what it seems,” Jaime says, also looking at the shadows beyond the Dragonpit hiding behind the green trees swaying in the gust coming from the West.

“And for now it will have to do.” Davos nods his head, folding his hands in his back.

“Yes, it has to,” Jaime agrees. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Because that is his promise now.

His oath to keep.

_And I will._


	4. The Direction Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne have some tough decisions to make, both of which will ultimately affect their futures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for sticking around and leaving comments and kudos. I am such a happy wacky Wacky as a result! :D
> 
> Either way, I hope you are going to enjoy the latest installment.
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

“Have you considered drapes?”

“ _Drapes_.”

“Well, there is a giant crack in the ceiling… _new_ ceiling,” Tyrion says, one hand resting behind his head while the other traces the shape of the crack running above their heads as both brothers lie on bed.

Jaime’s younger brother looks far better for the wear after he was finally granted opportunity to properly bathe and trim his beard. Tyrion looks much more like the man he used to be, a feeling Jaime didn’t have in a while, because he doesn’t feel like he has been anywhere near close his old self for a long time.

He still finds all of it surreal, a dream that just goes on and on and on like the darkness he was engulfed by for so many nights. Even now that they are back in the Red Keep, the place he called home for many years, Jaime feels detached from it, from himself.

The former guest room at the far end of the Red Keep was mostly undisturbed by the fire that ran across it when Daenerys Targaryen and her dragon set it ablaze and crashing down. Jaime found it both humorous and sadly poetic because this room mirrors him without having any mirrors inside it. After all, Jaime, too, feels like a guest in the Red Keep, a guest in this life, surrounded by the walls now mostly broken down.

 _And now this pile of rubble is supposed to be my home again_ , Jaime thinks to himself, watching the cracks in the ceiling still. _Because I am bloody King, still, and no one told me to wake up just yet._

“The ceiling _collapsed_ , Tyrion. The whole damned city nearly did. Cracks are the least of my problems,” Jaime points out to him, waving his left hand in the air for emphasis. “So long it doesn’t rain, I will be fine.”

“Not very kingly, though, I’m just saying.”

“It’s not supposed to be. We should be thankful for the builders who went through the Red Keep to tell us that it’s indeed safe to enter it again, and that’s all I need to know.”

“We could redecorate, though,” the younger man suggests.

Jaime huffs at that. “More drapes?”

“ _For instance_ , but you know, we could rebuild it from scratch. Maybe a bit more like the Rock… or perhaps some Dornish design. I heard they had some fine patterns and such, and they certainly know how to install water gardens, which are nice to have… once we have it all figured out with the water supply.”

With a grunt, Jaime turns his head to look at Tyrion. “That is absolutely _not_ the priority. This chamber here is more than enough for me. The one thing we ought to see to is that the rubble is removed, as I was told. However, so long we have some rooms to live in, we are the last on that list. You may recall that there is a whole city in need of rebuilding. People rely on us that we make this our priority, Tyrion.”

A city he now has a duty to rebuild as King.

_However unbelievable that still is._

“You don’t say. But still, some drapes, something to cover up that crack in the ceiling. It is making me dizzy already and I don’t even sleep in that chamber,” Tyrion grunts, sitting up, dangling his short legs over the edge of the bed.

Jaime snorts at that and instead lets his gaze wander back to the big crack in the ceiling just above the bed through which blue sky peeks through. “I actually like it.”

“Who in his right mind likes cracks in the ceiling? Seven Hells, maybe more got damaged in your head than I feared back when I found you,” Tyrion shouts, leaning his head back.

“If you believe so,” Jaime sighs.

Though it is the truth Jaime is speaking. As odd as it may seem to anyone else, he likes that crack, at least until the summer rains come. Then he _may_ change his opinion on the matter. But for now? It reminds Jaime of what he has to do, that a city, his city now, is broken, and how he needs to fix it.

Because that is his duty now, for the little blessings who gave him something Jaime didn’t know he was lacking until he felt it being given to him by so many people he didn’t know until they came in through Masha’s door.

Yet, the crack also reminds Jaime of something much more distant, much more obscure, hidden away in dark nights he spends thrashing on his bed, recalling the darkest hours of his life, until he finds himself in just that dream again, in that cave, that darkness, wanting to embrace it, giving up, until it cracks open and light appears.

_But whenever I reach out, I wake up and don’t know what it was._

“Maybe it was foolish to vote for a man as King who is so messed up in the head that he likes cracks in the ceiling,” Tyrion snorts, tapping his hand against his forehead.

Jaime sits up at that to study the younger man. “I still think it was.”

“I’m fairly sure it was not.”

“Thank you for the confidence,” Jaime huffs, though he is actually glad for the doubt. Because people who doubt are people who question, and people who question give Jaime a chance to maybe do things right he still has no clue about how to achieve. Because at the very least, he will know how it’s not supposed to be done.

_How did Olenna once say? I must be very wise, having learned from all of my mistakes, but that is actually one of the few ways to achieve that wisdom, for better or worse… I hope._

Tyrion wrinkles his nose as he looks at his brother. “You know, for that you will be _King_ , officially, little time from now, you look like you are about to be led to your own funeral.”

“Don’t you find it a bit too early for the dead jokes?” Jaime scoffs.

“Considering that you nearly died how many times by now? I suppose I should have started with them far sooner,” the younger brother huffs.

“Short may he reign.”

“You know how I mean it…,” Tyrion sighs, but then adds quieter, “I want you to grow really, _really_ old. And die of old age.”

“I thought that was your vision, coupled with a cup of wine and a woman’s mouth around your cock.”

“And I haven’t yet given up on that hope for myself, but I now have a clear vision of what I want for my brother’s future, and in that you are a white lion laying himself to sleep,” Tyrion tells him, with the kind of sincerity Jaime learned to realize as utter truth. For someone as clever and quick with the tongue as Tyrion happens to be, one can be lead to assume far too easily that every word the short man speaks is a jest, a joke, even though it is the plain truth hidden behind smiles. And in that the two brothers actually seem to share.

“So you better not disappoint that hope,” Tyrion goes on to warn him with a smirk.

“Your hope’s much appreciated. I gave up on a clean death by now anyway,” Jaime scoffs. “After having a castle drop on you and still surviving it… you consider the odds.”

“Speaking of, our odds may be a bit better than I would have estimated some time ago,” Tyrion informs him.

Jaime frowns at that. “How?”

To his mind, all odds are currently against them and he yet has to figure out how to wrestle with these dilemmas, figure out that conundrum.

“Remember our little… _inconvenience_ with a certain sellsword?” Tyrion questions.

Jaime swallows thickly at that. Of course he can remember. Because that was one of the avalanches that brought him to his knees back at Winterfell, reminding Jaime of the past that kept pulling him down, no matter how he felt on the ale and the song and the soft sigh of Brienne after she woke up sleeping beside him.

And a bolt ran right through it, barely missing his head.

“I recall,” Jaime says gruffly. “Did he send a raven to let us know that he’s coming for us now?”

“No, in fact not,” Tyrion tells him.

“Then he’s demanding Highgarden?”

“No, in fact not.”

Jaime cocks an eyebrow at him. “Well?”

“I received news from _Stokeworth_ , not Winterfell.”

Jaime scrunches up his face. “As in Lollys Stokeworth.”

“Yes,” the younger man confirms. “I believe you made her acquaintance once.”

“I did… I thought she married the other man who was proposed to her by the Crown, though,” Jaime scoffs. Had he not executed the Crown’s will to have that done, perhaps it would have proven to be one fewer pebble thrown down the hill upon which he was struggling for balance back at Winterfell. _Who knows?_ Because then, at the very least, Jaime wouldn’t have had to worry about Bronn of the Blackwater putting a bolt through both their heads, and possibly the woman Jaime was desperate to protect from his past catching up to him.

“It apparently never came to a union between the two,” Tyrion continues.

“Huh.” Jaime makes a face. He never bothered to learn about what became of Lollys Stokeworth or her marriage, if he is being honest with himself. All of that business drifted from his mind when Myrcella died in his arms. However, that is the wicked thing with the past, it gets back to you even when you try to forget it, even when you keep running from the darkness and towards the light.

“Bronn moved back into the castle and let me know that he is _officially_ Lord Stokeworth now, expecting that we do our job as King and Master of Coin respectively, and make sure not to bother him again,” Tyrion huffs. “Ever.”

“And then he will leave us in peace?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

“He says feuds are not profitable for him.” Tyrion shrugs his shoulder, which has Jaime snort, “Well, one person fewer on the list of people who want us dead… Let us rejoice.”

“Can’t we have happier conversations other than our impending deaths?” Tyrion whines, puckering his lips.

“Happier conversations? In such a situation? I don’t know, do you think these are the days of joy that would call for such conversation, just because Bronn apparently won’t murder us in our sleep?” Jaime spats, gesturing around.

A whole city lies in ruins, people are suffering and have to live off of the few provisions they have. And they are supposed to be led out of that misery by a man who only ever guarded kings and queens most of whom were undeserving, a man who never sat a chair as lord and decided on the fate of those he was sworn to protect. And now Jaime is meant to be that which he guarded for the better part of his life.

Against the odds of those quiet moments he enjoys with Tyrion for now, watching the sky drift away through the cracks in the ceiling, Jaime feels agitated, restless, anxious. Because he knows this is likely just a last respite before he will be judged for his actions.

_That is the way it’s always been._

At this point, Jaime doesn’t even know where to begin because he doesn’t know where it ends. That was what he believed to be the clarity that Bran had offered by having told him what would await him in the future, or rather, what would not. Yet, it gave him an image of his future, however dark, however painful. Now Jaime doesn’t know his future, despite the fact that the young man now his Hand actually should know, but Bran won’t share, for his very own reasons, Jaime assumes.

It is a different kind of darkness he finds himself in these days, a darkness that comes from not knowing what direction to go, to where it is all meant to lead. Before, it was a darkness nourished by knowing exactly to where it was all headed, or so Jaime thought, and having to walk towards it regardless of it. Now, though, he walks blind, and Jaime is honestly scared of following the light he sees, because it may be just as misleading as the darkness used to be.

“I want to have happier conversations because these days hold more joy than I ever dared to hope after all that’s been,” Tyrion says, pulling Jaime away from the dark images of a past and future hiding in obscure caves, back to the ceiling, back to his brother sitting beside him.

Jaime looks at the younger man with a tight grimace.

“Those are the happier times and I want to think of them as such because you are alive and I can see you every day when I feared I’d never see your face again in a lifetime. So yes, those are my days of joy, Jaime. And they will be for the rest of my own,” Tyrion answers with all sincerity he can.  

The older brother still cannot fathom what it must have been like, to find his siblings in the rubble, to find one dead and one barely alive, not knowing how to save the other when both already failed with the other. And as much as he can feel with Tyrion, there are simply some emotions he cannot share in, no matter the attempt. Because Jaime knows that his brother speaks the truth when he tells him how happy he is to have him, how happy he is that they both live. And truthfully, Jaime wants to feel the same, wants to share in that joy, but no matter their lighthearted talks these past few days, Jaime can’t find it in himself to let go of those things that make his heart heavy with sorrow, regret, and a great deal of fear.

Because he doesn’t know how to inspire hope in people who have suffered the devastation of two Queens fighting for dominance and failing at the task, who have suffered hunger, thirst, injury, death, loss, a city and its people burning. Jaime doesn’t know how to feel hope for himself outside the cracks in ceilings showing a blue sky above. Because he continues to see his own darkness looming in every shadowy corner, under every rock and piece of rubble. And as future King, he is supposed to inspire, he is supposed to give hope, is meant to unite a divided people, but how? How if he himself feels so torn apart?

If he is to believe his Lord Hand, Jaime is supposed to do however he chooses. And that is a frightening thought for him, terrifying, in fact.

_Because my choices have not been the best as of late… if ever, have they?_

“… So that’s how it will be now, those happier days… The two men convicted for Daenerys Targaryen’s murder… You will sit on my council as Master of Coin to help rebuild the country and Jon Snow… is sentenced to return back at the Wall, bound to pledge to never hold titles or father children of his own. I don’t find that neither right nor happy.” Jaime shakes his head.

When Bran informed him of the decision, Jaime believed he lost his hearing all over again. Because he couldn’t even begin to fathom why the Starks would come to that agreement, as a family, as people who care for one another without a doubt. He couldn’t understand how they would no ask him to have Jon released, or even take on the duty now his. And yet, the Hand let him know that it was “without alternative” and that it was meant to happen the same way it was meant to happen that he made Jaime King.

“Jon Snow seemed fine with it, actually, when I talked to him short before his release,” Tyrion ponders, chewing on his bottom lip. “He never sought the throne, never wanted the crown, even less so after he had to kill the woman he fell in love with. He may have Targaryen blood in his veins, but Jon Snow, truly, is a Northman through and through. And they don’t fare well in our kind of climate, so being sent to the Wall… it may be a small fortune, a mercy.”

_A little blessing._

“I offered, you know? Not just to pardon him but… for him to take the throne in my stead. After all, he’s the last descendant of the Targaryens… and a better man than most happen to be, despite the decisions or lack thereof here in King’s Landing,” Jaime sighs quietly. “And by rights, he took the throne by conquest from her, to keep people safe.”

And it would be a lie to say that there was no small part of him hoping that the younger man would agree and take on the responsibility in his stead. Jaime saw how the people reacted to Jon Snow, not just the Wildlings who adored him, but many more who felt like this bastard-not-a-bastard was a man they could follow. Jaime tended to think that the likes of Jon Snow have a natural way of gathering the people around them, an ability he found himself lacking because of his reputation.

_But that hope was soon to be disappointed._

Because Jon Snow didn’t want the throne, no one was there to tell Jaime to become as small as he feels, one tiny stone in a huge pile of rubble. Instead, Bran told him, if in different words, that Jaime was meant to be the cornerstone upon which the city shall be rebuilt. And that was both the end of a beginning that never was and the beginning of something destined to end, just that it did not.

“And so the Targaryen blood may have come to sleep forever,” Tyrion points out, swallowing thickly, “so the fire sleeps alongside it for all times.”

“If you believe my future Lord Hand, then that is so.”

“Well, do we have reason to doubt him?” Tyrion questions, to which Jaime can only ever snort, “Any.”

Because Jaime still tries to figure out whether the boy turned mad. After all, he elected the Kingslayer as King of the Six Kingdoms, insisted that he takes the position, when his own blood may have taken on the duty all the same, likely even better than Jaime ever could. Until Jaime is given proof that his Lord Hand is not entirely insane, he reserves for himself the private privilege of doubt.

“True.” Tyrion shrugs his shoulders. “People who know too much… they can be dangerous. Useful but also very dangerous. Or at the very least irritating.”

“Well, if not for him, I don’t know what would have become of us two,” Jaime thinks out loud, scratching his beard with his left hand.

“I don’t want to find out, really. I am happy with the mercy I was granted and won’t ask for more. I hope Bran is right, that I may be able to gain forgiveness for some of my mistakes by serving the realm rather than myself, right as many wrongs as I can… the usual things,” the younger man says, gazing out the window.

Jaime smirks faintly. “Same is true for me.”

“We are brothers after all. We share in everything.”

“Till the bitter end.”

_Or the bittersweet beginning, it seems._

“So… the Seven Kingdoms are now six in number. You are King of those chosen six. Sansa Stark will be Queen in the _independent_ North… Arya Stark will sail west of Westeros… Jon Snow will set travel to the Wall little time from now… the Dothraki are headed back home, too… the Unsullied are to leave for the isle of Naath… and the rest of the lords and ladies and smallfolks across the Six Kingdoms will have to begrudgingly accept those circumstances.”

“Until they decide otherwise,” Jaime sighs.

“They are still too shocked of that development for now, so I suppose we still have some time to figure out how to deal with them in the future,” Tyrion says, offering a gentle smile.

“One can only hope.”

“Well, at least we have most parts of a renewed Small Council pieced together by now, to help in that effort. And that is something to put hope in, I believe. With Sam and Davos we have some good people on most certainly. Though I still find it a pity you want to do away with the Master of Whisperers. Those are _fun_ ,” Tyrion recounts.

Those were the easier decisions to Jaime’s mind, because he dares to think that those are people he can rely on, not just to aid him, but to help him do right by the people Jaime is now sworn to defend.

“I think this country’s had enough secrets. We don’t need any more of them,” Jaime argues. He saw time and time again what secrets do to a man, to a nation. He was bound to keep the secrets of a king for far too long. And Jaime, truthfully, doesn’t want to be the king he used to serve, doesn’t want people to keep his secrets. Then he is rather accused of his wrongdoings out in the open, for better or worse.

“You already sound so righteousness it is boring,” Tyrion huffs, if slightly amused. “Be it as it may, I think we are not on the worst of paths. Things are moving forward, if slowly.”

“Because that’s the one direction we have for now.”

For a moment, the brothers just sit in silence, allowing their minds to wander as far as they can in just that direction, entertaining those little ideas of what could be. Some ideas are more comforting than others, but they speak that one clear language: there is just moving ahead from the past, without forgetting it, but going back to the old and the trusted, the tried and the broken, it is no longer an option.

“… Have you spoken to _her_ yet?” Tyrion asks after a while, not meeting his brother’s gaze. Jaime still feels as though someone stabbed him right in the gut at the mere mention of that one idea he doesn’t dare to entertain, doesn’t even dare to touch.

“I wanted to, but she’s made herself rare. For a woman that tall, Brienne certainly knows how to disappear,” Jaime exhales.

He only ever caught glimpses of her when he walked the streets of King’s Landing to talk to his people, making some arrangements for the starting reconstructions. She almost felt like a shadow, a fleeting sensation of familiarity that was gone before he could as much as turn his head in her direction, flying away like a leaf in the wind.

Only in his dreams did she linger a while longer. Yet, even then, Brienne was quick to flit away through the cracks in the ceiling whenever Jaime dared to reach out to her, before he dared to call her name. And he woke up in a bed with no one but himself inside it, with nothing but his own desolation keeping him company as cold winds blew cold through the crevices in the walls.

“Can’t blame her, really,” Tyrion says with a tight smile.

“Trust me, I don’t, not for a single second,” Jaime sighs.

Not after what happened at Winterfell, not after what he said to her before he rode to what Jaime believed his sure demise. Truthfully, Jaime knows there is no one but himself to blame for how this all played out, how all of it ended before it had a chance to truly ever begin.

He still asks himself every now and then how Brienne didn’t just hit him square in the face upon seeing him after she had to assume that he was dead, only to have him stride into the Dragonpit very much alive.

_And how she gave me her vote despite it all…_

He doesn't know why, which leaves Jaime with no other choice but to accept that as his new reality, new life, wherein the women he believed to finally got to know seems so far away, a fleeting memory riding away on cold winds blowing.

“Will you bid her farewell, then? I suppose she will travel back North with Lady Sansa… I mean _Queen_ Sansa,” Tyrion asks hesitantly, chewing on the inside of his cheek with a tight grimace.

Jaime bites on his bottom lip, closing his eyes for a moment. He knows Tyrion is clever enough only to ask the questions he is sure his big brother asked himself already. Because _of course_ Jaime did. Ever since he watched her walk away from the Dragonpit after he was declared King, ever since it became clear that Sansa would be heading back to the now independent North, the thoughts kept nagging at him.

_She will leave and you will never see her again. She will do what you did to her, but this time for good reason. She will leave you and there is nothing you can do about it – because how would you make her stay when she begged you to and still you went away?_

Though Jaime reckons it may be for the better, for her at least. Brienne did well in the North, for all he could see. As she said to him _that night_ , she knows how to keep her fire going. Brienne knows how to carry on no matter the odds against her. She lived through so many hardships that Jaime dares to hope that he will be no more than a _fleeting_ pain she will learn to forget over time, that she will brush the settled dust off her armor and move on as boldly as ever.

After all, their only direction is ahead now, and the same is true for Brienne. Jaime can only hope that she won’t keep walking circles for longer than is necessary, because Brienne does not deserve that.

_She doesn’t deserve any of it. She deserves more than I could give her, that’s all._

However, if their current situation proves anything, then it is that people rarely get what they deserve, for better or worse.

“I don’t think she’d want to see me there… or at all, ever again, but… I have a valid excuse as future King of the Six Kingdoms to bid Sansa farewell. You know, it’s probably good tone to wish the future Queen in the North good luck,” Jaime ponders, the corners of his mouth nervously flexing.

Because however close that future is, Jaime doesn’t know how to walk towards it yet. Instead, he just stumbles and falls wherever he turns, feeling his knees grow weak with every step he takes in this strange, obscure world. He feels any urge to walk back around, regardless of the fact that he knows that he has to walk ahead, has to, has to, has to.

“… Are you ready to bid _her_ farewell, though? Again?”

“… I will have to be,” Jaime answers, looking up to the crack in the ceiling. “And even if I am not, I will have to do it nonetheless.”

Because that is the one direction.

_It is the only way._

And it is ahead.

* * *

 

“Are you ready for this?” Tyrion asks as they continue to make their way to the Dragon Gate, or rather, what remained of it after the creature that gave it its name swept through it with Fire and Blood.

“Even if I were not, would that stop it from happening?” Jaime asks, his face a tight grimace on the verge of getting cracks like the walls they keep passing by.

“I’m afraid not,” the younger man answers.

“Then I don’t think it really matters,” Jaime sighs, almost losing his step as he has to climb over a large stone still lying in the middle of the road. Deep down, he knows that it doesn’t matter, that it shouldn’t even matter. All is done and the rest is left unsaid. The past happened and it is only the story of tomorrow they may still change. And Jaime is fairly sure that where there once were shared chapters, there are now bound to be two separate books, one blue, one red.

“Well, ready or not… time is up,” Tyrion says as they reach the Dragon Gate. Jaime can spot the carriage and the readied horses at once. He is not surprised that Bran is not there to bid his sisters farewell, reckoning they will have followed through with that in private already.

The two cover the last bit of distance and bow their heads lightly once they come to stand before the two young women soon to leave North and West of the West, right into the hearts of unknown futures.

“Good day to you.”

“Good day to you, too,” Sansa greets the brothers. “I never expected to see the capital again. Last time, I fled from here.”

She allows her gaze to wander with a saddened yet relieved kind of expression, and Jaime hopes that coming here one more time will have brought her some peace with the past she had to suffer at the hands of the worst of his family – and the worst of so many other people who wanted to exploit a young girl who wanted to be Queen, unaware that she would be Queen in her own right one day.

“Not this time though, I hope.”

Sansa smiles softly at him. “No, this time not.”

“I hope it is alright with you that there is no royal farewell ceremony,” Jaime says, coughing lightly. Once arrangements were made for the last of the Starks, as the soldiers already marched ahead safe for the entourage meant to guard their future Queen, Jaime started thinking whether he had already broken protocol by not having planned a ceremony, a feast, or whatever else.

Though thankfully, Sansa holds up her hands. “By all means, I am glad for it that there is not.”

“So am I,” Arya huffs. “I have no need for it. I told those goodbye I wanted to, and that’s more than enough to me.”

“So you will leave from White Harbor, I heard?” Jaime asks, looking at the young woman who saved them all from the darkness of the Long Night, a girl whose name will never be forgotten, a girl who will never be no one.

“Yes, it may take me a while longer but that gives our men the time to set everything up for the voyage and…,” she stops to smile at her sister. “… I’d like to spend just a bit more time with my family until I go, because it will take me quite some time before coming back home.”

Jaime smiles at the two of them softly. Because he can still recall another image back from a feast at Winterfell what feels like ages ago, can recall stories he was told about the sisters and their many disagreements. However, looking at them now, after they spent so much time and were so many miles apart, they seem closer than ever. And that, Jaime hopes, is what their mother would have wanted for them all along.

“Hopefully, one of these days, message will reach us about your great adventures, Lady Arya,” Tyrion tells the young woman. “I’d die to hear what there is to be found in those strange lands no one dared to put down on a map yet.”

Arya winks at him. “If I find something, I’ll make sure to let you know as well, though first message will travel North. Always.”

She looks back at her sister who smiles back at her in turn.

“Most kind of you,” Tyrion chuckles. “And I perfectly understand.”

He looks at Sansa, who smirks at him gently. They both came such a long way from the day they were put together in a marriage that always was just the culmination of too many hands trying themselves at the political spiel still dominating Westeros, or rather, the world entirely. And when Jaime looks at those two, he dares to hope that even with the North now independent, there is a way of staying together nonetheless, linked by a shared past, a kind of respect that grew to be trust.

“Well, and to you… I wish all fortune in the world, my Queen,” Jaime says, bowing his head lightly at Sansa another time.

“All the luck to you, too, my King,” she returns.

“I hope that despite the North’s independence, we can still remain on _some_ good terms in the future,” Jaime adds with a tight grimace. After all, it can’t harm to ask. He doesn’t pride himself having been particularly good at reading clues as of late.

“That surely is my intention,” the young woman answers. “You have my brother here as Hand, after all. So I have a vested interest to remain on good terms with the man he is now to serve.”

Jaime smiles. “That is a relief to hear, because that would be my intention as well.”

He can’t say he got to know Sansa Stark very well, even though her safety once was the promise that held Brienne and him together, held his honor together when it was on the verge of breaking, however futile that proved to be in the end. Despite it all, Jaime can still see the change in her. This is no longer the girl who had food tossed in her face by her younger sister at Winterfell, the girl who fancied herself being Joffrey’s Queen in the city she fled from once but now no more. She is her own Queen now, a true lady of the North, so much alike her mother than she’d ever know, and so much more.

“Just because the North is independent doesn’t mean we must remain divided,” Sansa concludes. “If the fight against the living dead proved anything to us, then so it is that during times of need we must stand together despite our differences.”

“Wise words,” Jaime says with a smile, but then his gaze starts to wander about, hops over boulders and white dust in search of the one direction he knows he cannot go, the one way he cannot follow.

“She isn’t… she won’t come with me,” Sansa then says, pulling Jaime’s attention back to her abruptly. He blinks at her repeatedly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Lady Brienne,” she answers. “I suppose you are looking for her.”

Jaime licks his lips nervously. “Was I wrong to assume that you’d like to have her by your side as… part of your Queensguard or such?”

Because that is what he saw on her path, going forward. That is what he saw for her to follow what she chose as her mission, standing by someone’s side she knows she can trust and who trusts her in turn, someone who won’t bring her to dishonor.

_And foremost away from the man who brought her such grief over and over again._

“I gladly would have kept her by my side to keep my counsel, but Brienne asked to be relieved of her duties, and I granted it, of course. She served me better than anyone. She was me an advisor and a protector… but foremost a friend. And so I think it was only the right choice to let her go without asking questions,” Sansa explains quietly. “She has her reasons, that’s all I need to know.”

“She certainly does… but… do you know… do you know to where she’s headed by any chance, then, if… if not back North with you?” Jaime asks, trying to swallow a lump building up in his throat. “To Tarth, perhaps?”

Because that was the other path he saw for her, a path he only ever got as much as a glimpse at when he was on the way to Dorne and believed that way to lead to Estermont, a sapphire glistening in the ocean like the most precious gem he ever laid eyes upon.

“I really don’t know. She wouldn’t say and I didn’t ask, as I said. I reckoned she’d tell me in her own time,” Sansa replies, offering a mild kind of smile that forces Jaime to return it, even though he doesn’t feel like smiling at all.

“Alright, I thank you for letting me know,” Jaime says, feeling in the dark all over. And that cuts deeper than he would have imagined, not to know to where she is headed, no knowing for sure just what future there is for her, because if there is one certainty in Jaime’s life right now, then it is his wish, his need, his desperation to be sure that this woman has a future, a path ahead that leads into the light. For that, he’d ride into any darkness, would stumble all the way to collapse into that abyss with a satisfied smile.

“All the best to you,” Sansa then says, pulling him back to the Dragon Gate, back to the future he knows ahead, at least that one bit. “Long may you reign.”

“Long may you reign, too,” he answers, before looking at Arya. “And safe passage to you.”

“Same to you,” Arya says with a grin. “I think you may have just as much of a dangerous quest ahead of you as I do, but I hope you make it through the storm.”

Jaime bows his head to either one. “Until next time, I hope.”

With that, the young women turn around and walk past the gates of King’s Landing, but this time not apart, not driven apart by circumstance, but driven together by family, for as long as they can and further still.

The two remain standing while Arya climbs her horse and Sansa gets into her carriage, leaving only just her hand to dangle out the window while the younger sister rides next to her, almost touching each other as they continue their passage ahead. And while they, too, will part once they reach White Harbor, there seems a strange kind of hope, of acceptance between the two of them. Because as bitter as it may seem that a family driven apart by the horrors of the game of thrones, finds one another again only to scatter into the winds all over, there is some sweet scent in the air. After all, there is an invisible thread running between them all, woven out of a shared past, a shared life, an unending love no matter the circumstances, no matter the pain, and the promise that one day, they will meet again.

Because while the lone wolf dies, the pack survives – and they survived.

Because for them too there is just one direction and its name is ahead.

Its name is future.

And it lies in the air with the sweetest of scents, holding nothing but a promise that they shall meet again.

Some day.

* * *

 

“… What are you doing here?”

“Standing, as it appears, m’lady.”

“ _Podrick Payne_. You know exactly how I mean it,” Brienne scolds the young man with raven hair standing before her at the small wooden table of one of the few inns that survived the assault on the city.

As it appears, one of the few constants of life is that so long there is an inn, people will demand their drink, no matter the ashes and rubble around them, no matter the grief and horrors they faced before. Not that Brienne means to complain. The ale was a welcome distraction, a welcome remedy to her already clouded thoughts to turn them fuzzier by the edges, wash out the contours until she could only hear the murmurs and soft laughter of people who have seen so much worse than she did and yet find it in themselves to joke and smile. Nevertheless, it doesn’t cease to fascinate Brienne that this is one of those things capable of uniting people through times of such a crisis.

Because it is always the little things, in the end. An ale handed out for free, a table that bobs back and forth because one leg is too short to make a joke about, a squeeze to the shoulder, a warm smile.

_It’s the little things that matter most, always._

“Will you just continue to stand there?” she asks, looking at the young man she didn’t think she’d see again until she saw him looking around the small house where ale is handed out to anyone asking for it.

Podrick ducks his head as he sits down across from her, nearly tipping off to the other side.

_While he improved somewhat, he is still rather clumsy sometimes._

Though Brienne reckons she can’t teach him that art. After all, she is anything but elegant, anything but swift. In the end, she is likely even clumsier than that young man before her is, who has at least the excuse of young age and enthusiasm getting the better of him every now and then. On her, it just proves a point so many made before and she did not listen and focused on her swords and shield instead.

_For all the good it’s done me._

“I thought you were headed North,” Brienne comments before taking a small sip from her ale. This morning, she didn’t speak to anyone beside Lady Sansa and Lady Arya to bid them privately farewell. She had reckoned Podrick would come to her to say goodbye, so when he did not, Brienne just assumed he just couldn’t bear it and rode after Lady Sansa to return back North.

And yet, here he sits now, looking his usual self, smiling, finding happiness in the strangest of places at all times. A small part of herself would like to have that way of looking at the world with a smile no matter its desolation. Because all Brienne can bring herself to is forced grins and downcast eyes.

“Sansa offered you a position in her army, as a general, I heard,” Brienne adds when the lad won’t reply, which only ever adds to her grown irritation. After all, she is trying to accustom herself to that sensation, so it may no longer sting that much, this feeling of people leaving, leaving her.

_Because I can’t make people stay with me no matter what I do. I learned that lesson by now._

“She did, in fact. And I felt very honored,” Pod confirms, nodding his head with a smile.

Brienne cocks an eyebrow at him. “Well?”

“Well… _you_ are here, though,” the young man answers with a roll of his shoulders, leaning forward slightly. Brienne sighs, leaning back in the uneven chair. “You can’t just keep trotting after me until the rest of your days, you know that, don’t you?”

She told him how many times by now? Brienne is no leader, at least not when it comes to those things. She may have led them to Lady Sansa eventually and she led into the battle at Winterfell, but when it comes to life itself, of that Brienne is certain, she is the last person anyone would want to follow, should follow.

_Or stay with, for that same matter._

“I know that, but I think that, for now… I have to keep trotting to get to where I want to be,” Pod answers, tilting his head to the side.

“Then what would you want to do here, trotting by _my_ side, Podrick Payne?” Brienne questions, looking back at the man who followed her all the way North, then all the way South again, a young man who fought by her side against the living dead and survived, and now had any chance to harvest the fruit of his hard labor, only to trade it instead for a wobbly chair in a broken house turned inn.

“Well, I’d like to think that I can be at your service even now, or perhaps even more than ever,” Pod contemplates, looking around. “Besides, I couldn’t possibly leave m’lady all alone, could I? Where would be the honor in that after you did not abandon me when you had both opportunity… and any right, really?”

Her lips curve upwards despite the fact that Brienne finds it so hard as of late, harder than swinging a sword or walking through a city turned to ash for hours, in full armor now or not.

“It wouldn’t have been right,” she argues.

“I was pretty useless for a squire in the beginning.”

“And that was so because no one taught you what a knight normally would have done. Tyrion taught you other skills… things that have proven useful on our journey, but he couldn’t teach you how to be a knight, even if he would have wanted to.”

“Well, thankfully I found someone who could… and did,” Pod answers, smiling at her warmly.

“That is all… very kind of you to say, but you should not fall back on your dreams… your future… only just to tag after the woman you have been trotting after for years now, learning what it takes to be a squire,” Brienne points out to him. She takes another sip from the ale, but puts it back down quickly, overcome with its sudden bitter aftertaste.

“I still have any intention to achieve my dreams, but they don’t run away. In fact, I believe I am right where I am supposed to be to get closer to them. If that means trotting after you a while longer, I’m all the gladder. I owe you more than I could ever repay in a lifetime, m’lady.”

“You owe me nothing,” Brienne argues, shaking her head.

“I owe you everything.”

Brienne stares at him for a moment, but then quickly averts her gaze to look at the swirls of froth in her ale circling around the wooden cup.

Seeing him like this, Brienne feels reminded that Podrick Payne is by no means the young lad anymore who didn’t know how to ride a horse, let alone roast a hare, anymore. He came a longer way than from King’s Landing to the Wall and then to Winterfell – and then back again. As much as she finds herself struggling to see it at times, Brienne knows that he is in fact a man now, an able squire, a good soldier, a young man of honor, primed to become a true knight one day.

While Brienne finds it hard to admit at times, she cares for this young man a great deal. And all things considered, she is glad for that “gift” Jaime made to her before he sent her on the quest to find Lady Sansa, even when, back then, she could not fully appreciate it. That was a lesson she had to learn from Pod, actually.

_Perhaps that’s the point, though. Jaime gave me someone to stay by my side not yet knowing that he himself never could past a certain point._

Brienne focuses her attention back on her squire as he leans forward once more.

“Though I’m still surprised that _you_ didn’t take the offer, to tell the truth,” he says uncertainly.

She licks her lips, looking down at her cup. “I’m surprised myself.”

When Sansa offered her to come back to Winterfell and become her advisor, Brienne was shocked at how fast the reply came that she could not return back North with her. She didn’t even have to think it, the words fell from her mouth and were made truth before she could see it as such. And that despite the fact that Brienne knew a past version of herself would have said “yes” at once, with all her heart, wouldn’t even have questioned it, would have planned her travel back North instantly and never would have looked back.

Though Brienne already came to realize that there are many versions of herself currently fighting for dominance inside her: the woman who did all she could for a single oath to keep, to Lady Catelyn. The woman who focused all of her efforts to be a good advisor to Lady Sansa once she became Lady of Winterfell. The woman who led an army against the living dead, no matter the consequence, with nothing but an honorable death on her mind. And then the woman without armor, far too fragile, caught up in a web of her own insecurities and the growing suspicion edging on knowledge that she was never good enough, never, simply, enough.

And Brienne just doesn’t know who is meant to win that battle, leaving her with the somber feeling that she is, right at this moment, no one, a shadow of herself, just a walking shell, held together by the armor he once gave her.

 _And then he ripped another away from me, leaving me without my usual defenses, my trusted weapons_ , Brienne can’t help but think with bitterness she can taste on her tongue alongside the ale. And that even though she vowed to herself not to let those thoughts win anymore. They did for far too long back at Winterfell, when she was busy staring at the flames, drying her tears. She meant to leave them behind for good, after all.

However, no matter her intentions, it seems that the worst parts of herself keep following her like a shadow, like many shadows, taunting, laughing, poking at her exposed sides, her invisible wounds. Because they want to bring out the worst of herself and Brienne is afraid that they may win this time.

_But I can’t let that happen. I just can’t._

“So… to where are we headed next, m’lady? Would you want to return home to Tarth by any chance?” Podrick asks quietly. “We could go there.”

“… No, not yet anyway,” Brienne mutters.

That’s actually perfectly out of question at this point of time. Travelling home, Brienne couldn’t possibly. The thought alone makes her shiver violently. She couldn’t hide it from her father for only just a single second, couldn’t hide the worst from him, her fears, her memories, because that man could always read her when most others tended to fail – or never bothered to try. He would see and that would force her eyes open, too. And Brienne just wants to close them and forget, leave it all behind, cut off the shadows with Oathkeeper and run, run as fast as she can.

_But I can’t. I just can’t._

Suddenly, there are so many things she can’t do when not long ago, she felt like she could do anything, could have more than she ever dared to hope. For a short time, Brienne thought she would achieve all the things that were no more than distant dreams of a young girl who held tourney sword in one hand, and the favorite dress she used to wear, not knowing how ridiculous she looked in it, in the other. Brienne thought she could finally have it all, because, foolishly, she believed that the worst troubles were those she had then overcome.

_And what a fool I was, believing that._

Because those worst fights were still ahead of her, when she had no sword, wore no armor, had just her own arms to hold herself together, to keep herself from falling apart. And looking at the city lying in ruins now, Brienne found herself a new mirror, one that does not reflect the light, only her own darkness, the remains of her foolish dreams of a future that was never meant to be.

Brienne feels like she is walking circles on the walls of a city she barely knows, not knowing her way out or inside, and it’s tearing her apart every day anew.

“So… where do you want to go?” her squire asks, pulling Brienne back to him, to the now, not those taunting memories she tries to swallow with ale, however bitter.

“Here,” Brienne answers simply, her voice barely carrying over the noise of the people talking.

“ _Here_?” Pod repeats, the corners of his mouth edging into a frown.

“Yes.”

Podrick shakes his head, evidently surprised by her curt words. He wets his lips. “But, uhm, as you will know… I mean… _he_ is…”

“Here,” Brienne completes.

Yes, she knows, she knows it so much that it hurts, but just like Brienne knew she couldn’t go with Sansa, couldn’t go back home, she knew it almost instantly when she rode past the walls of King’s Landing, knew it even before she learned that he was alive. It was a call that resonated without the ring of a bell, without anyone giving a speech. She just knew, deep down, and she knows now, even though it hurts to know, pains to accept.

“Right, so why…?” Podrick questions, looking for words that won’t come to him, so Brienne provides an answer that’s actually no answer, but will have to do because she can’t admit to more or less to him or anyone else for that matter: “Suffice to say I have reasons beside the one you likely have in mind… I have business here, something I have to see through to its end, no matter what was in the past… no matter what lies in the future. It’s just something I have to do.”

This place is her mirror, and as hurtful as it may be, Brienne knows she has to glance into the looking glass born from rubble and ash until she sees what lies beyond it, so she may get off the wall and stop walking circles.

“Well, if that is what you want, you can be sure that I will be there with you, m’lady, every step of the way,” Podrick tells her, offering a gentle kind of smile Brienne has no doubt he means just so.

“I appreciate that.”

His smirk only ever widens at that. They enjoy the shared silence for a while, let it fall into the noise around them, of people gossiping as though nothing ever was.

“Speaking of… now that you decided to stay in my services against better judgment… I would like to ask a small favor of you,” Brienne says after a while. “If you don’t mind.”

Podrick perks his ears at that. “Whatever it is, I shall do it at once.”

“There is no hurry,” she assures him. “If you get it done by tomorrow, it’s just as fine. You know your way around the city better than I do. Perchance you can give that to Sam or anyone who happens to have ravens that didn’t fall victim to the dragonfire…”

Brienne takes out a small scroll which she hands over to Podrick. “It’s meant to go to Evenfall Hall.”

He nods his head. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you.”

Brienne stops the serving girl passing them by. “I’d need another refill, if you don’t mind. And a cup for him as well, a big one.”

Podrick smirks at her.

“I will bring fresh ale presently,” the girl with reddish hair says. “I’ll be right back.”

“I thank you.”

With that the serving girl walks away again to fetch the new drinks.

“It fascinates me,” Brienne whispers, lost in thought as she watches the girl walk away, with a lightness in her step as though the world did not collapse around her when in fact it did.

“What does?” he asks quietly.

“How life always just continues, no matter what, no matter the tragedy,” she answers, her voice almost a whisper. “It just goes on.”

Because all those people seem to know a secret she yet has to discover, how to carry on with a head held high, even at the risk of walking circles over and over again. And it appears, those are lessons she still has to learn, even if that means following their footsteps for a while longer.

“It has to,” Podrick comments.

Brienne nods her head. “Quite right. And still… quite fascinating how it always seems to work.”

It’s fascinating to see that life can go on, will always go on, that no matter how thick the layers of ash laying upon the city still, life is only just one summer rain away from bursting through the rubble to grow green leaves leaning towards the sun.

_And I must go on, too, because life just has to go on._

Though Brienne will admit, it is nice to know that her life continues not entirely left to her own devices, those weapons she feels somewhat out of touch with in using. She is not alone. This is one of those gifts that keep following her not like a shadow but a light in a great darkness. Brienne reckons there are two men to thank for, the one sitting across from her and the man who she is soon to call King.

That should keep her going, should give her strength to move forward, even if that means walking circles for a while longer.

“Here you go,” the serving girl says, putting the drinks down on the wobbly table, splashing some of the golden liquid onto the surface readily swallowing it up.

“Thank you,” the two say in unison.

The girl tilts her head to the side as she watches the table for a moment longer. She then puts the tray down with a thud.

“Oh, let me fix that little quick,” the girl says, bending down to pick up a small stone that’s likely still rubble swept into every house from the explosions that wrecked the city. The young woman twists it in her hand a few times before stuffing it under the shorter table leg. After getting back up, she gives the table a light shove to test it, and it moves no more.

“There you go,” the girl announces, happy with her work as she picks the tray back up. “Just give a shout if you need anything else.”

“We will, thank you very much,” Brienne answers, watching the girl almost dance away to take the order from the next table. She looks back at her cup, then grabs it and holds it out to Pod, who copies the movement to clink it against hers.

“To unknown futures in the city,” Pod says.

“To unknown futures in the city,” Brienne repeats before taking a sip.

And to her surprise, she finds that it is no longer bitter.

In fact, there is a hint of sweetness there, travelling with a silent song ringing in a young woman’s bounce in her step as she carries on with life, fixing what she can with what she has at her disposal.

Because life goes on.

And so will she.

Because that is the only way.

The only way ahead.

* * *

 

Jaime looks around the city he is now meant to protect with a grimace. Walking down those streets still tends to fill his heart with dread mingled with fondness, fondness for all the little blessings going about their lives no matter the destruction, fondness for children playing in the rubble, pretending that the stones in their houses are not the remains of other peoples’ homes but horses, knights, and fair maidens.

He made a habit of it to go out into the city at least once a day, if he can manage between the preparations for his apparent coronation no one yet told him was apparently a joke. It is happening, for all he can judge, and so Jaime tries to accustom himself to that reality by looking at the reality of the city, of the people.

“We will have to think about how to get houses built quickly. Right now, far too many live crammed in the few houses still standing,” Jaime comments, looking around.

“We are already looking into that. Though it may be necessary to keep people together in bigger houses until the whole reconstruction can happen,” Tyrion tells him. “Priority is on making sure that the houses still standing are secure.”

Jaime nods his head in agreement. “Most certainly.”

“I already talked to the city planner and he said that maybe you are right about it that we can dedicate some of the properties around the Red Keep to reconstruction efforts. There was not nearly as much rubble there, so we may have it easier to put up at least some provisional homes for the people who lost theirs.”

“Good. There’s no need for those gardens anyway.”

All inside it is dead and Jaime would much rather welcome life back into it.

He tries his best to focus on these things, the things that are within his grasp somehow. While he doesn’t pride himself being a carpenter or a city planner, Jaime heard enough about it to have some vague idea about what has to be done to ensure that the people can live safely in the capital again. It is a welcome distraction to his mind, not just to take it off the coronation but far more importantly… _someone else_.

He tried to make his peace with the idea of Brienne leaving to Winterfell without ever having had the chance to explain himself, to apologize, but when that did not happen, Jaime found himself in a new kind of limbo. To where is she headed? Is she alright? Is she in danger? He just doesn’t know. He hasn’t seen her since. And no small part of himself would like to get on horseback and search for her, just to be sure that she is fine, _however fine one can be after all that happened_. There is so much Jaime would want to do, would want to say, but he finds himself walking circles around the city, not knowing to where he is headed.

Because there is an infinity of possibilities now when there used to be just one when he left Winterfell – darkness. Now there is light, however, every day anew, and Jaime doesn’t know how to follow the sun when all he sees are the shadows of his own actions haunting him.

Jaime stops in his tracks all of a sudden, his eyes widening at the sight ahead of him. “… Tell me I am imagining this.”

“Imagining what?” Tyrion asks, making a face.

“What I see right now, walking down the streets, right towards us,” Jaime answers, his muscles tensing more than a bowstring ever could. “Tell me that this is just a figment of my imagination.”

Because that is the trick his mind played on him far too often by now, that image, that figment making his heart beat faster and faster.

“I’d be lying if I did because I see the same,” Tyrion answers.

“Why is she still here?” Jaime asks, watching no one other than Brienne striding towards them, Podrick, as usual right behind her.

He accustomed himself to the idea that she’d forever turn around and stay out of his way, but now Brienne is headed right towards them, with the same posture as in the Dragonpit when she pushed past him. And that raises all but one question:

_What am I supposed to do now?_

“Well, I reckon we are to find out as she walks towards us. Brace yourself, brother, and don’t mess it up for once,” Tyrion tells him, offering a grin and a light tap against the outside of his brother’s thigh. “I have faith in you, my King.”

The brothers wait until the other two reached them. Jaime wants to greet her, wants to say some many things, but once their eyes meet, his mind goes completely blank and all he can do is stand there, trying to get his jaws apart, nervously brushing his hand over his stump.

Tyrion, noting his brother’s apparent condition, takes matters into his own hands and greets them, “Lady Brienne, Podrick, pleased to see you.”

Podrick winks at Tyrion who returns the gesture. Brienne, dutifully as ever, bows her head lightly to the future Master of Coin.

“Lord Tyrion…,” she says, then turns her head to Jaime, but this time fails to meet his gaze and instead remains in an awkward kind of bow. “My King.”

“Please, I am not…,” Jaime stammers, already hating that distance. Here they are, only inches apart, and just that phrase, just that name, can put a thousand leagues more between them.

_And that even though I used to be Jaime, just Jaime to her. If only for a while._

“Not until his coronation,” the younger brother adds, offering a small smile.

“… Right,” Brienne coughs lightly, straightening up a bit. “Do you… do you have a moment to spare or is there some urgent business you must attend? I mean, as King… _future_ King…”

“We have time, so please…,” Jaime finally manages to say, biting down the “please stay” that nearly would have travelled past his lips, had he no swallowed it back down as quickly as he did. Because Jaime knows he can’t say that phrase, can’t mean those words, not after she begged him to stay and he denied her.

Brienne swallows, her hands only ever stopping to fidget when she grasps the hilt of the sword he gave her, the sword that’s always meant to be hers. It is another best part of his that Jaime left to her and that she kept, even though he can imagine the weight of it must wear down on Brienne more often than not after all that’s been. And for that, he can only feel ever the more sorry, ever the more unworthy.

_Because it is meant to protect her, not wear her down. Like I am…_

“I just wanted to let you know… uhm… I meant to inform you that Tarth has pledged its support to King’s Landing in its reconstruction effort. I wrote to my father and he confirmed that the Sapphire Isle enjoyed a very good harvest this summer in which we’d mean to share as much as we can,” Brienne says stiffly. “If you allowed, a ship would set sail to here as fast as possible to provide food and other necessities for the people of King’s Landing.”

Both brothers blink at her, genuinely surprised at that proposal, not because it is by any means unlike Brienne of Tarth to mean to aid the people but simply because that was the last thing either one had on mind when it came to her.

“That is… most kind of you,” Jaime answers after a moment of silence. “Thank you so much.”

“You’ll owe that thanks to my father as he runs Tarth and gave his permission. It’s not much, as we are only a small isle, but it may aid in the immediate relief effort, I hope,” Brienne continues, licking her lips. “And perhaps… others will join. My father is… well-liked around the Stormlands, you see…”

“That is… I lack the words,” Jaime says, which are perhaps truer words than he could ever speak. He lacks the words, for so many things. Because there is so much he’d mean to say, would mean to say to her, but the phrases flit away before he can grab them whenever his eyes meet hers.

“You don’t say,” Tyrion snort.

“Shut your mouth,” Jaime hisses under his breath.

Brienne chews on her bottom lip. “So… can I let my father know that we have your allowance to sail to King’s Landing’s harbor?”

“By all means,” Jaime replies. “We desperately need all the help we can get. You’ve seen for yourself… there is much that needs to be done.”

“Most certainly,” she confirms. “Well, I am glad for it. I will let my father know immediately.”

“Lady Brienne…,” Jaime stammers. She tears her gaze up to meet his. “Yes?”

“Do I… can I take from this that you wish to remain in the capital a while longer?” he asks, swallowing thickly. Because it _is_ tough to swallow – the one possibility Jaime didn’t see happening no matter how many times he turned and stumbled in the darkness inside his own head.

“… Yes,” she answers uncertainly but lacking no ounce of resolution.

“Uhm, that is… good to hear,” Jaime says, wincing at himself for not being able to come up with something more appropriate, something more meaningful. Because she means so much more to him than his words can even begin to express.

“I have businesses to attend, and for that I ought to be here, not elsewhere,” Brienne lets him know.  

“I was surprised that you didn’t return North, to tell the truth,” he comments.

“As I said, I am needed here,” Brienne repeats with a bit of force, but it leaves her the next moment, to carry on in a whisper, “I… need to be here.”

Jaime gestures around. “Be our guest.”

“… I will report back to you once I have message from my father of when to expect the ship to arrive,” Brienne tells him, no longer daring to meet his gaze.

“You can also… any time…”

“ _Right_. Thank you, my King.”

“ _Not_ King… I mean…,” Jaime insists. And only the Gods will know what he’d give to have her call him by his first name once more.  

_Just one more time._

“ _Yes_ … well, I must be on my way to get that message delivered, the sooner the better. Thank you for your time,” Brienne says hastily, before doing a quick bow to both. “Podrick?”

“Yes, m’lady,” the young man answers, getting the cue that this is their time to part ways again. He nods at Tyrion and bows to Jaime, if a little awkwardly, whereas Brienne already turns around abruptly to walk the opposite direction.

Jaime watches her as she skips over boulders and rubble left and right, Podrick following after her.

“How bad was I?” he asks at last. “Be honest.”

“You didn’t piss yourself?” the younger man offers.

“Factually true.”

“It was pretty bad.”

“I feared you were going to say that.”

“Maybe next time.”

“Maybe.”

Because apparently, there is a chance of a next time now.

And hopefully, he will have more to say in a future yet to come.

A future suddenly right ahead.


	5. Forging Futures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry is in for some surprises when it comes to their future king whereas Davos is about to discover some things strangely familiar yet entirely new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for sticking around! I am happy for all the kudos and comments you were so kind to leave for me.
> 
> I know that this chapter is not right back on track for JB to finally have confrontation about the more private matters, but I found it a nice set-up before getting there eventually.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Gendry never saw himself as anything other than a smith after he became apprentice to Tobho Mott and learned the craft. In fact, a part of him would have been just fine staying by the forge till his bones would have cracked louder than the hammer blasts on the anvil. Back at Winterfell, this craft gave him purpose, more than one. He found himself respected by people who otherwise never would have so much as given a rat’s ass about some lad from Flea Bottom, Gendry knows that.

_Because most lords and ladies always give a rat’s shit on anyone underneath them._

And now he is supposed to one of them, is meant to be Gendry Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands.

_Which is mad!_

Gendry almost laughed himself dizzy when he realized that he had given Jaime Lannister his vote to make the man king. He – one of the Kingmakers. He – a rat from Flea Bottom no one gave a shit about unless they knew who was his father.

And even then, that only got me into even more of a trouble. Every time!

The laughter had soon faded, however, because realization dawned on Gendry that he may have just given away the one thing he was granted to keep – that title, that name, that lordship. What would keep Jaime Lannister from stripping him of the titles Danerys Targaryen had bestowed upon him during the feast at Winterfell? Absolutely nothing, Gendry told himself, and once he let that thought sink in, he started laughing all over. Because, this, too, was utterly ridiculous. Why would he be scared of losing something he never had? Gendry spent his entire life being a smith, a man forming metal into new shapes.

So what difference would it have made if Jaime Lannister had decided to take his lordship away again? Gendry actually still fails to understand how he was supposed to be good at much of anything regarding the matter. He is not entirely stupid despite his lack of education, which is why he soon suspected that the Dragon Queen did so to sway the crowd in her favor. It was a political move, he understood that much even without knowing how to read and write.

Not that Gendry would know how that would work past a certain point – you don’t need that kind of spiel when working the forge. You put in as much metal as you need and the exact same amount comes out again. You add the heat and temper it in the water, and that’s it, a new blade is born, finer, better, sharper.

In a way, Gendry fancied himself to be a blade of his own making, first rough metal plates, but after the forge, he was no longer Gendry Waters, wasn’t just some rat from Flea Bottom, he earned embellishment and golden ornamentation. And long before short, he was Gendry Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands, a heavy blade, or perhaps a war hammer. Either way, he saw himself as a weapon that was suddenly meant to impress.  

Though as a smith he also knows that the fanciest blade can be as blunt as a butter knife. And at this point of time, Gendry doesn’t know why the man who used to be the Kingslayer and is now King did not undo the actions of the woman who burned the city. Gendry wouldn’t even begrudge him for it. For all it seems, the man has surprisingly right intentions in mind, cares about the people, those most people forget or only ever see once they hold a title like he does now.

_People like me… or who I used to be before I got some embellishment._

Walking down the dusty hallways of the Red Keep, Gendry can’t help but wonder whether that may actually be the moment this game begins all over, the game he doesn’t know how to play and has no intention of ever learning.

He was surprised when someone was sent for him to formally request that he shall meet the King in the remains of the castle, actually having expected to simply be informed that it was all thin air that Daenerys Targaryen wove at the feast and that there could never be a lord the likes of Gendry Baratheon, or rather Gendry Waters.

Though perhaps it’s not the almost bad, even if he winds up being just Gendry Waters all over again. They always have use for smiths, in any city, in any town. He will find his way around no matter what.

_I have to. After all, I promised._

“Ah, there you are!” Jaime greets him as he walks in through the gate that used to have a door until it was blown up by the dragonfire.

The man he only ever knew as the Kingslayer, wearing armor, looks very different now, dressed in a red velvet doublet now instead of metal to guard him. Coupled with trimmed beard and hair, he looks much more regal, more kingly in that way. Though the uncertainty he spotted in the man’s demeanor back in the Dragonpit did not fade at all, and Gendry must say, as odd as it may seem to anyone else, it actually gives him surety in turn. Because it makes him feel less alone in his own uncertainty.

“Here I am,” Gendry agrees with a tight grimace, folding his hands in his back. “You had me summoned, Your Grace?”

“Yes. Please, have a seat…,” the older man says, gesturing at the chairs with a grimace. “We are still looking for more chairs and a table that’s apparently not just coal and charred wood, so for now this will have to do, I am afraid.”

“I’ve sat on shittier chairs than that, believe me…,” Gendry laughs, but then gathers himself, after all, that’s not how he imagines lords to speak. “ _Your Grace_.”

“I’d hope we can keep this a little less formal,” Jaime suggests, and Gendry can’t help the relieved smile at that. “I’d be glad for it.”

The older man nods his head. “Good.”

They sit down. Gendry observes the man across from him carefully. He only ever caught glimpses of the Kingslayer back when he was still working for Tobho Mott, then later again at Winterfell. Jaime Lannister looks much different from both his memories, actually, not just for matters of the different attire but rather the expression, the aura. It is softer somehow but also oddly uncertain.

Gendry never had hard feelings towards the Kingslayer like most others did and still do. He knew who he was, he knew what everyone seemed to know about that man, that he killed Aerys, that he rode under the lion banner, such things. Gendry had suspicion of House Lannister like most others did. But in the end, he didn’t much care about the man who was part of that family. When he joined their common cause in the North, Gendry found it admirable how Jaime Lannister spoke up and kept a promise Gendry learned means nothing much too many lords and ladies who are more about talk than action.

Looking at Jaime Lannister right now, however, Gendry can’t deny himself that he feels closer to the man than he would have back when he first saw him. Because in the King’s expression he finds much of himself, this doubt of what the future holds and how they are supposed to play their part in it.

“… If, if you want to take my lordship away again, you can rest assured that there will be no hard feelings. I’m not a man for revenge, really, just… just so that you know,” Gendry breaks out saying. He thought about it over and over and came to the conclusion that it may be best to do as the man said, drop the formalities and say it as it is.

_Though I certainly would have liked to say it a bit more elegantly, Seven Hells._

“Neither am I, against all odds, but taking your title away is by no means my intention,” the older man tells him. “Just so that _you_ know.”

Gendry frowns at that. “Oh.”

“In fact… I want to offer you something that comes along with upholding the promise of lordship Daenerys Targaryen made to you,” Jaime goes on to explain.

“And what would that offer be?” Gendry tilts his head to the side, tapping his finger on his thigh absently.

“As you will know, I still have a Small Council to put together to make decisions aimed towards the betterment of the Six Kingdoms, at least that is my goal,” Jaime explains, licking his lips.

Gendry nods his head slowly. “Right.”

“It is in my interest that this council is not just run by my brother and I. I think that for far too long kings and queens alike have chosen their advisors so they would have people to share in their opinions rather than challenging them. Because I believe a good advisor should always be a king’s greatest contender in any argument. At least I made the experience that I made the best decisions when I followed the advice of someone who challenged me in my views,” Jaime explains, his eyes briefly drifting over to a crack in the wall. Gendry tries to read the man’s expression but fails at the task.

“The Small Council is supposed to keep the one wearing the crown in check, not the other way around,” the older man continues after a moment of silence, coughing lightly.

“I fully agree with that,” Gendry says, nodding his head.

_The man’s a surprise for sure._

“Good,” the older man smiles nervously. “Well, in that same spirit, I think it is important to elect people suited for their positions while also trying to strike a balance with having people from the different regions there, to gain perspective and ensure that they are being heard.”

“I certainly find that right, but how does that relate to me?”

“I want to make you the offer of becoming the Master of Laws,” Jaime then says, much to Gendry’s shock. “Under two conditions.”

“Which would be?” the younger man asks, finding himself momentarily breathless.

_This really is mad._

“One, you don’t get that position at once.”

Gendry makes a face. “Well, that’s odd, I daresay… no offense, Your Grace.”

“It is odd, and no offense taken, but it’s tied to the second condition. You haven’t actually been Lord of the Stormlands because you haven’t even been there. You were never at Storm’s End, you don’t know the people you are supposed to rule now,” Jaime says, rolling his left wrist in the younger man’s direction.

“True, and that’s scarier than I ever imagined,” Gendry admits, looking down.

“Trust me, _I_ know,” Jaime laughs, gesturing at himself. “I enjoy the advantage that I’ve lived in this city for most of my life, so at the very least, I know the people I am meant to rule here. I think it’s vital that the Lord of the Stormlands gets a chance to gain that advantage, too, however. Therefore, it’s necessary that you travel to your new home and get to know your people. To give them a chance to get to know you, too.”

“That would have been my plan anyway.”

“Good, very good. Now, the reason why I eventually want you to have a seat in my council is not just because you bear a name or because you may grow to be a decent Lord of the Stormlands. I want you here for that particular position because I think you can grow to be most suited for it, _given the time_ ,” Jaime explains. “You were not corrupted by politics just yet. Rather, you’ve seen the flipside of becoming the plaything of just those powers. I believe you can grow to be uniquely fitted for the position because you know what it’s like to be someone of the smallfolk. You know what they want. You care about them, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“We need people like that on this Council – people who have authority by virtue of what lords and ladies still demand, but with the heart in the right place, the people actually meant to be served. I want such people to keep my counsel to ensure that we stay true to the laws,” the older man goes on to say. “The laws should be in place so people can call us rulers upon them and remind us that we, too, are under their rule. Because I have seen and felt what it’s like when rulers believe themselves above all laws. Far too many times.”

“I would be… greatly honored, Your Grace,” Gendry stammers, still not believing any of this. First he becomes Lord of the Stormlands and now he gets to keep that position and may gain another? Perhaps he is the one still dreaming.

“It is a great responsibility, but… I think you are not ready for it yet. Not just because you have to get to know your people first to better represent their interests but because you are, frankly, inexperienced. And that was one of the reasons why I frowned when Daenerys Targaryen gave you that position as Lord of the Stormlands,” the future King sighs.

Gendry rolls his shoulders. “Can’t begrudge you.”

He felt the same and clutched at the hope that someone would teach him, that she would stay by his side because she grew up on this world, but she decided to go elsewhere. And once that sank in, Gendry felt all the more like rejecting the offer and simply returning to his forge.

_But then again, I promised her. She believed in me…_

“I have a future to protect, the future of these people. Now, we can’t do away with politics, as much as I would like to. We can’t do away with lords and ladies still making more decisions than is good for most… We have to deal with them and use them and… if you don’t watch it, you will be run over by lords and ladies who have the advantage, who have the knowledge, the experience you lack. At this point, you run any risk that they may succeed,” Jaime warns him. “Your people will suffer for it. And in that way, my people, too, which I can’t let happen.”

“Then wouldn’t someone else be more suited after all?” Gendry frowns.

“Let me ask you this way around: If I were to ask you to forge me a new blade, would you tell me that you couldn’t ever do it because you believe there is someone out there who could do it better or… would you do it and give your best?”

“I would give my best, but that’s something different.”

“How is it different, you tell me?”

“Well, one is craft, the other is… politics. Laws. Such things.”

“And they are a craft of their own. Without a hammer, I will admit, but it is a skill. A skill that is learned. You are right about that one thing: Right now, you couldn’t be the man most suited for that position, but you could grow to be one day. I want to give you a chance to get there, and even if you eventually decide not to join the Small Council, you will have learned things that will help you be a better Lord of the Stormlands. No matter what becomes of it, I am giving you a chance to become better.”

Gendry stares at the older man, not quite believing what he hears. Jaime Lannister already surprised him a number of times, but this just now? It has him wonder how a man who knows him so little can have such faith in him. In him, Gendry Waters now Baratheon. He tends to think that the future king would have more reason to dislike him than believe in him, for who his father used to be and who gave Gendry the title before attacking the capital. Yet, here is a man who dares to put trust in him.

“The reason why I would like to welcome you on the Small Council one day is that I want people there who have seen what is priority, that _life_ is the one thing that matters. You fought with us in the North, risked your life for the living, more than once. You are a lord without having grown up with its privileges. I believe you enjoy a curious advantage in that you weren’t twisted by politics. You seem to know what’s right and wrong not because of politics but because it’s right or wrong for the people most forget. However, Masters of Laws have to do _more_ than finding something right or wrong, they have to know the laws which dictate it. This doesn’t come overnight.”

“Most certainly not,” the younger man agrees.

“Which is why, with the second condition, I want you to make me a promise here and now, should you accept that position _once it’s time_ ,” Jaime tells him.

“What promise?”

“To learn.”

Gendry furrows his eyebrows. “ _Learn_?”

“Yes. You received no formal education, but lords and ladies around you did. And they will want to take advantage of your lack of knowledge, as I said. You need to learn, and you need to learn fast. You have charm like your uncle Renly used to have it, who once filled that seat you may come to have one day. You have charisma like father used to have it, too, but your father’s legacy should also teach you that… this is not enough to make a good ruler, now lord or king… it doesn’t matter.”

“True.” Gendry nods his head. He once found himself embracing that name, that identity, that hammer, and still has to do it now that he is seemingly meant to accept the position as Lord of Storm’s End, but Gendry also grew weary of his father’s legacy. Because he doesn’t want to be the kind of lord his father used to be as king. After all, Robert Baratheon did not care for bastards like him down Flea Bottom, even though he helped spreading them.

“You can’t just leave it all to a council to handle in your stead, though you will have to rely on those people until you caught up. You have to learn the texts of the laws, to be the one enforcing them not just for your people that you yet have to get to know but also the people of King’s Landing, the people of the Six Kingdoms, if you so choose,” Jaime continues. “So… learn, learn fast and learn better. Learn to read and write, don’t rely on others to read treaties to you because they may lie to you or believe you don’t have to know every detail when, in fact, you do. You are in a distinct position now because you care about the people most lords and ladies still give a rat’s shit on. You know first-hand what it’s like to suffer for the rich not caring and I believe you’d want to see that changed for others, do you not?”

“I’d want to make things better for them, I really would,” Gendry confirms. It didn’t come to him at first, not at all, in fact. He was giddy with wine and the honors just received, back at Winterfell, so giddy that he ran to Arya to chase a kiss and already painted himself a future far away, when Gendry didn’t know how to hold a fork or a brush for that same matter.

The future he is now meant to build, he can’t do it with her by his side to tell him how. Gendry accepted that even though his heart still aches for it, _for her_. Yet, in a way, Arya made him promise her to be a good lord. At least he came to see it that way. And Gendry will do his best to make it so, to forge that future that may still be rough and not at all elegant but much sturdier than the paintings he made in thin air, not knowing how, so that his promise will keep up for many years yet to come.

_So she may see it once she comes back and can see that she was right about me, to have that bit of faith in me as a lord._

“And you can only do that if you learn how to make good policy. So… find good advisors and learn ways to ensure that this wish of yours becomes reality. Don’t hesitate to write… or until you can write yourself, _have written_ … to my brother, to Ser Davos, to Sam, to me, even, to whoever you know and trust to give you good counsel. You shouldered not just honors but responsibilities when you accepted that title from Daenerys Targaryen. Now I ask you to continue to take that responsibility as I extend that promise to _me_ , to _my_ conditions,” Jaime tells him, pointing at himself with his left hand.

Gendry studies the older man, finding himself strangely fascinated by him. Because that man, truly, is not at all what he believed him to be. Gendry thought Jaime Lannister to be an elegant kind of sword, rich with embellishment, with golden lions that make it nearly impractical. Yet, he starts to see what’s underneath it, a straight blade without adornment, just clean lines that speak of elegance, made of the toughest of steel and forged to have the sharpest blade, ready to cut through stone and wood that’s been growing strong for centuries.

“The same is true for me, of course,” Jaime continues. “I also shoulder responsibility, I, too, have to learn a lot. You are a king in small now, for the Stormlands, for those people you are now sworn to serve. And your people need you to run it better than your father or his brothers ever did. We all need to do our very best. We all need to improve and learn. And that means I need your best, too. Can you promise me to try anything within your powers to learn and become better so that once you return to King’s Landing, you _can_ become my Master of Laws, if you still so choose?”

“You have my word,” Gendry says, the words coming easy to him.

Because he can get behind that design, he can get behind learning from that man how to craft such blade, and reshape himself along the way, press himself into that mold and dip it into water to make it hardened steel.

Jaime smiles at him, looking genuinely relieved. “Then all is good. And I promise you the exact same thing: that I will, too, become better and do right by our people.”

“That’s one of the strangest promises I ever made, I will admit,” Gendry laughs.

“Those are new times, they demand new ways, new oaths, _Lord Gendry Baratheon_. However, of that one thing I dare to be more certain of than others: forging new alliances and making them sturdier than they used to be… who is better suited for that position than a man who’s forged metal for the better part of his life?” Jaime smiles at him, and Gendry smirks back. “I hope that’s true.”

“Make it true.”

Gendry chuckles at that. “I will give my best.”

The future King smiles at him. “Then I am looking forward to see how long it will take you to finish that next sword of yours.”

“It may take me some time to get it right, but of that one thing I assure you, once it is done… it will be sturdy _and_ sharp,” Gendry assures him.

He promised her, and Gendry never lost grip on the hammer with which he forged such oaths – and he has no intention to start it now.

_I will do it, for my king, and for her._

“Very well. Then I believe all is said,” Jaime says, nodding his head.

“I thank you for the trust.”

“I thank you for the trust, too.”

“I will have to read a lot, won’t I?” Gendry laughs.

“Oh yes, you will. And you will hate it,” the older man chuckles softly.

Gendry snickers at that. “Looking forward to it.”

And as it appears, Gendry will be an apprentice all over again, though he dares to say that he looks forward to those years of study, because he will learn an entirely new craft that will bring not just him but many other people forward. And he wants to master it, to keep that promise, that oath and make it last even longer than Valyrian steel ever could.

Because he is Lord Gendry Baratheon now, and that man was and is, foremost, a smith.

* * *

 

Brienne closes her eyes and listens to the two things familiar to her wherever she goes: the sound of the wind whistling and tumbling over the sea and the rush of the waves as they are carried forth by the gust.

King’s Landing, she is aware, is not that unfamiliar to her anymore. Brienne spent some time around the Red Keep back when she brought Jaime to the capital upon Catelyn Stark’s order. Though truthfully, back in those days, Brienne hardly saw the inside of the city. She walked up to the Red Keep to escort Jaime there and then stayed inside its walls most of her time, to keep an eye on Lady Sansa and, frankly, to enjoy the bit of privacy she was granted with the man in whose presence she found herself breathless more often than not.

They roamed the gardens a lot, she can still remember, talking about their journey, about those things only the two could understand, could ever truly fathom. Because telling of the horrors of imprisonment and having one’s hand chopped off will always be different from the experience, the actual feeling. Even the most gifted storyteller, Brienne imagines, cannot encapsulate that terror, that fear, that pain. Those conversations offered them both solace in a time of change that happened all too fast around them. They could offer it to one another in the privacy of the gardens where no one could hear or see them, where they were left undisturbed.  

She can still remember the ghost of Jaime’s right hand on her back one day in those gardens, when he didn’t yet have his golden hand, when there was just the stump, properly wrapped and treated.

They had just sat down amidst high trees upon his request to tell her the sad news of what had happened at the Red Wedding. Brienne tried to stay stoic, the way she always does, but Jaime knew how much that hurt her, to know that the lady she vowed to serve, vowed to protect, was dead. It was then that she felt warmth in her back, the ghost of a hand almost brushing over the space between her shoulder blades. Jaime meant to offer comfort by means of a simple touch, to let her know that he understood, that he shared in her pain despite the differences his family had with Lady Catelyn’s by the time. However, Brienne never felt the pressure of his stump against her back because Jaime, having realized that he meant to use the hand no longer there, quickly withdrew and instead offered kind, whispered words of reassurance.

Back then, she will have to admit, Brienne would have liked to have had the strength to tell him to hold her, but she didn’t back then.

_And once I felt strong enough, it was too late._

It left her weaker than she ever felt in her entire life, and weaker than Brienne would ever care to admit to anyone. Even now she feels as though her armor was not out of finest steel but brittle stone, only ever putting weight on her without offering any true protection, always on the verge of breaking apart.

Brienne never felt this way before, not even after she lost Renly, because Jaime, she let close in a way she knew she’d never have done with the man she first called her King. She shared with Jaime more than she shared with, frankly, anyone in the world. For Renly, she put the armor on, for Jaime, Brienne had to let go of it.

_And now I just want it all back, my armor, my sword, my shield._

Because Brienne can’t afford to be weak, she can’t even afford to feel that way. She has a duty here now she wishes to fulfill, and for that, she has to keep fighting, as Brienne vowed to herself that she would never run away from a fight again either.

However, it is hard, so far away from home, from any familiarity and comfort beside her loyal squire who won’t leave her against better judgment. And so, Brienne is left to her own devices, to the calls of the sea, because that voice always gave her a sense of direction when she felt lost.

Because the sea knows many directions, but in the end, they all lead forward only.

And it is to this place that she still has to get.

_And I will, eventually._

Brienne turns her head when she can hear footsteps close by.

“Ser Davos,” the young woman notes as she sees the older man approach, hands folded in his back, offering his usual warm kind of smile Brienne wished she could wear at all times, too.

“Lady Brienne,” he says, bowing lightly before letting his gaze wander about, a frown forming on his face. “Where did you leave your squire at? He’s normally wherever you go.”

“He is having dinner with the Master of Coin,” she answers.

Davos chuckles at that. “Of the liquid kind, I assume.”

“I’d reckon so,” Brienne snorts, but then looks at him with more sincerity. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“I beg your pardon?” He tilts his head.

“Well, I heard that you were elected as the new Master of Ships. That is a great honor,” Brienne replies stiffly. “And I daresay you are more than well-suited for that position.”

He laughs at that. “Oh, right, I thank you. I must say I feel like that is something I will do better than some of what I did in the past, half the time not knowing what I was doing as Hand exactly.”

“You served your Kings well, as far as I can judge,” Brienne argues faintly.

_At least he made sure that the second King he served lived, even if it’s beyond the Wall now._

“One King I served even though he disgraced himself and others as they died at his hands or that of the Red Woman who gave it all to the flames,” Davos sighs.

“And another you served who disgraced himself so others may live,” Brienne points out to him quietly. Davos looks at her, appearing honestly surprised by that.

“I’d hope that this will count in the end, whatever way that end will look like,” he sighs, bouncing back and forth on his heels. “So, I assume you are awaiting the ship from your home isle, m’lady?”

She nods her head slowly. “Yes. It’s not that I don’t trust you to handle those affairs, but… it’s been a while since I last spoke to people of my home in person. I only found it right to welcome them here while they stay.”

Her eyes drift back to the ocean, to the home always far away and yet so close.

“You’ve been away from home for a long time, haven’t you?” Davos asks in a quiet voice.

“In fact… never again after the melee at Bitterbridge where I became a member of Renly’s Kingsguard… if only for a time,” Brienne admits, swallowing thickly. Back in those days, she didn’t even waste a thought on how she may come to miss her home. She always had the sea not far away, and even when she did not, Brienne was sure of her purpose, that what she did was what she was meant to do.

But now? Now Brienne knows no more, and the waves don’t hold the answer for.

_Yet anyway._

“That is really a long time,” Davos ponders, studying the sea as well.

“I suppose you know what that is like?” Brienne questions. “From what I have heard, you have been away from your home for… many years now, in fact.”

“Indeed, though a smuggler turned Master of Ships tends to be driven by a certain amount of restlessness. The world’s always been more of my home than a single place,” the older man ponders with an easy smile tugging at his lips. “Do you have any intention to visit the Sapphire Isle, m’lady?”

Brienne shakes her head slowly. “Not for now, no.”

That is the one direction she knows her ship called life can’t set sail to, not after all that’s been, not after all Brienne still feels she has to do, so brittle armors may turn solid again, or else she’d get lost at sea without a doubt.

And she can’t let that happen.

“I reckon your father will miss you dearly.”

“He certainly does,” she whispers. Brienne can almost hear the sad sigh in his voice whenever she receives a letter from him.

Her father never really writes it, never accuses her, never asks her directly to come back home. Because he learned to understand his daughter, learned to speak her language, even though it took Lord Selwyn Tarth a while to hear it. Nonetheless, Brienne can read it between the lines, a meaning standing behind each letter like a small shadow of its own. When he writes that he misses her, Brienne knows that to be true but she also knows the implication, the shape of the shadow behind those written words. She knows what he means when he says that he is worried about her, about her future, her safety.

However, at this point, there are far too many shadows looming behind every large stone boulder, every piece of rubble she walks past daily, for Brienne to concern herself with the ones her father puts into his letters.

She has to take one step at a time.

“It’s what fathers do… even when their children are long since no more,” Davos says, his voice slightly cracking towards the end.

Brienne turns to him, doing her best to offer a comforting smile despite the fact that she knows that it likely looks more like a pained grimace at best. Because she heard about his son, she heard about Shireen. And whenever she thinks about the losses this man suffered and still found a way to smile, Brienne dares to have that bit of hope that her father found a similar way to deal with his longing for his only living child who continues to make him worry despite best efforts to the contrary.  

“Children tend to give grief to their parents more often than not,” she says.

“And yet they grant the greatest hope… of one’s own future reaching beyond ourselves,” Davos exhales wearily. “Well, if they are granted to live beyond ourselves, that is.”

“I suppose I could only ever know if I were to live such a life, but… I only know it from this side, what it’s like to have a father always worried.” She quickly averts her gaze and instead focuses on the sea, the soft breeze about to pick up momentum and push forward.

“If I am not mistaken, m’lady, you got at least a glimpse at those little futures reaching beyond ourselves in the orphanages you seem to have visited more regularly these past few days,” Davos comments.

Brienne looks back at him, swallowing thickly. She tries her best to conceal her feeling caught, but Brienne knows she is terrible at the act. Lying was never her strength and the veil concealing the faces she tries to hide behind it grows thinner with every day passing.

“Oh, are you now Master of Whisperers, too? No one told me,” she tries to joke, though the smile never reaches her eyes.

“I hope not. But I see about them, too, the children, I mean, so Gilly and I could not help but notice your presence there,” Davos explains. “Though you were quick to get away, I will add.”

 “Well, you caught me there,” Brienne answers, chewing on her bottom lip. “The ship’s supposed to bring not just food but also some things to lighten up their moods, some toys and such. It’s little but… it’s not nothing.”

“It’s surely more than nothing,” Davos tells her, visibly touched by this. “A wonderful idea, in fact.”

“It’s the least we can do to ease their suffering… they had enough of that,” Brienne mutters. “And they don’t deserve any more of it.”

She found it incredibly hard to go into the orphanages. In fact, Brienne felt any urge to turn around and leave again. It was tough to look into the reality of the terror two Queens fighting for a throne could bring to a whole city and its people. There are many children who lost their homes, their mothers and fathers. Some are still recovering from their wounds, others have to learn how to walk with one leg or grab with only one hand after buildings just fell down on them and buried them underneath the weight of a surge for power. Some are still wrapped in thick bandages to cover their burns and ease that pain to this day. And back when she first decided to go to the orphanages, Brienne didn’t know what to do. She never prided herself being good with children anyway. So Brienne found herself nearly always at a lack of words, a lack of herself to express her own grief to turn it into comfort.

In the end, she felt like Jaime likely did back in those gardens, torn down by the shame of only ever having the ghost of a hand, the ghost of a comfort to offer to people in dire need of much more than that.

However, it didn’t stop her from visiting. It didn’t stop her from trying. Brienne made a decision to stop running and she sticks to the promises she makes. That is the one thing keeping her upright now, when all around her still feels as though it was on the verge of collapse. And so she stayed, and so she learned to speak to the children in what Brienne hopes is a comforting tone that will assure those boys and girls, at the very least, that they are not that alone anymore.

That there is someone who will protect them.

Because it is only then that Brienne hears the words that give her more strength than pain, even now after all that’s been: _In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. Arise, Brienne of Tarth a knight of the Seven Kingdoms._

 “Oh, I agree,” Davos says, pulling Brienne out of her thoughts, back to him, back to the sea and the stronger growing gust coming from the east. “They can use any distraction they can get, and they earned more than any of us could ever give.”

“The children like Podrick a lot. He has a way with them,” Brienne says, watching the water tumbling over itself with ever small wave crashing. “He can tell them how he became a squire. And he knows how to embellish that story a _great_ deal, seemingly something he learned from the man he is having _dinner_ with right now.”

Brienne tended to watch in the orphanages more often than not, and let Podrick take the lead. He has a way to interact with them, a way to make them smile and forget about the destruction just outside their doors. And no small part of herself wished she could do the same, could make them smile, could make them happy.

_But like so many things, it appears that I was never meant to be this way, to live that life, to travel to those shores…_

And so Brienne is left listening to the gust and watching the light cascade in the waves rippling over the ocean instead, living in the echo of what could have been, of what she could have been, could still be but likely won’t ever achieve.

“I think the both of you have great stories to tell, with or without embellishment,” Davos chuckles softly.

“I once stared at a tower for months, waiting for a candle to be lit. Interesting story to tell in all of its details,” she snorts. “The children are bound to love it.”

“You also fought the Hound,” he argues. “That’s one story to tell.”

“Oh, they like to hear all about it whenever Podrick brings it up and makes me tell my part. It’s a pity they never hear the Hound’s side,” Brienne argues. She came to think that Sandor Clegane and Jaime were not dissimilar in that way, both having come to die in that city for their own purposes, just that the Hound found his end whereas Jaime found a new beginning.

She adds with a sigh, “This war took far too many.”

“Agreed,” Davos says, nodding his head. “… Well, I think that the children will gladly hear of the knightly tales of _Ser_ Brienne of Tarth, the first woman knight of the now Six Kingdoms.”

“I still wonder how long it will take them to start to frown at the idea, but until then… I take solace in the joy it seems to give them,” Brienne mutters, not looking Davos in the eye as she speaks. “They should dream of something else than rubble, death and ash.”

They should dream of the vastness of the sea, she finds, of the possibilities it holds, the many directions it can go.

“More dreams of spring would be nice, yes.” Davos nods his head.

Both watch the sea in silence for a moment, sending a hope into the winds that may carry beyond themselves, too, about better dreams to come for those little children who had their old ones destroyed and burned. Because seasons are changing now, whether they are prepared for it or not.

“… Are there any news from the Reach yet?” Brienne asks after a while. “We will need a lot of their help to keep the people fed and clothed. I don’t see anything growing here any time soon, so King’s Landing’s people will have to rely quite heavily on the other regions to help them, I imagine.”

Davos nods. “The castellan who was left in charge after the battle at Highgarden already agreed to send provisions. They should arrive in due time. And the Iron Bank already let us know that they will pay us a visit once we have _accustomed a bit_ and once our future King _settled in somewhat_.”

Brienne huffs at that. “Most kind of them.”

“They are vultures,” Davos scoffs.

“True,” Brienne says, but the small smile fades from her lips before she can even try to bring it back, to keep it there, if only to hold up that veil a while longer.

“Are you quite alright, m’lady?” Davos asks.

“Why, yes?” she stammers and Brienne could kick herself for it. It’s enough that she continues to get those glances from Podrick all the while. Brienne can’t have others look at her that same way. She doesn’t want anyone’s attention. She only wants to go about her duties to the realm, to this city, to their future king and his mission.

And the rest she wants to give to the sea, wants to leave it there to drown and never come back to the surface again.

It’s heavy enough, after all. It should sink easily.

“Because you look like you have something on the tip of your tongue but can’t let it travel past your lips,” Davos explains. “And I know that same expression from my son, when he wanted to share something but felt he could not tell me because he thought I would never understand.”

“There are many things on my mind, admittedly… though I’d guess that is rather natural, considering all that’s happened as of late,” Brienne says, not daring to look the man in the eye as she speaks.

“Lady Brienne… _Ser_ Brienne,” Davos begins, forcing her to turn her head in his direction at least a bit. “I just want you to know that… despite the differences we _surely_ had in the past… you have friends here beside your squire.”

This time, her blue eyes focus on him and Brienne forgets about the veil, the howling of the sea, about everything except his voice, his words.

Because that is a wave, a direction to which the sea is headed, that Brienne did never foresee, let alone see coming.

“You can speak to us, the people now sitting on that council, to me, if you liked,” he continues. “You don’t have to roam the streets all by yourself. And even if you want to look at the city without your squire, I’d be honored to show you around.”

She smiles faintly though earnestly. Brienne swallows, opens her mouth, then closes it again. Because the words won’t come, but to her surprise and comfort, Davos waits for her, doesn’t change the topic. He waits for her answer, waits for her to get these words, these truths past her lips into the world.

“I… I tend to get lost a bit when I am on my own,” Brienne says at last, licking her lips. “I will have to admit.”

“Don’t we all at times?” he asks with a gentle smile.

“Maybe… maybe you could help me with delivering some of the goods to the orphanages and soup kitchens once the ship arrives?” Brienne then asks, trying to do better than her past selves, trying to reach out to the boat only a few feet away from her, tries to swim there even though she feels tired and on the verge of going under.

Because she is even more tired of the shadows hiding behind boulders and letters, she is tired of the darkness lurking behind every corner, she is tired of those ghosts, each and every one of them. Yet, she doesn’t want to dream, she wants to awaken.

“I’d love to,” Davos says, patting the side of her arm two times with a kind smile Brienne can’t help but return, not caring for once that it likely is an odd grimace once more.

Davos looks back at the sea another time. “Though I guess it will be some more time until the ship arrives. It appears they are a bit late.”

“They are coming right on time,” Brienne whispers.

“Can’t see them yet.”

“But I can already hear the wind that’s meant to carry them,” Brienne says with a soft smile, closing her eyes, lifting her arm to point the direction. “See?”

“You may have to teach me that art, m’lady, it’d come in handy as a Master of Ships,” Davos laughs once he can spot the shadow of a ship in the distance, coming closer.

“I’d like that very much.”               

Because maybe, just maybe, it will help her to find a safe way back to stranger shores.

And maybe, just maybe, she has to dare to let her sails be blown by stranger winds, too, and the ghosts along with it.

* * *

 

“Hello?”

“In here.”

Gendry sticks his head in through the gate leading into the chamber where the Small Council meets these days.

“I would have knocked, but you still don’t have a door,” the young man says.

“Well, if anyone asks, I claim it to stand for a metaphor about open doors,” Jaime laughs, gesturing at the young an. “Come in.”

Gendry nods his head as he walks inside, bowing awkwardly once he comes closer to him. “My King.”

“My _Lord_ ,” Jaime chuckles softly. “What brings you here?”

“I wanted to give you a gift,” Gendry answers, holding out a bundle wrapped in rather rough cloth.

“I don’t know how to wrap it in a fancy way,” he adds quickly. “Though it’s more about what’s inside it anyway.”

“A… gift? How do I come to that honor?” Jaime frowns, motioning closer.

“Well, for one, I only find it right after all you bestowed upon me,” the young man points out to him, bouncing back and forth on his heels in a nervous manner.

Jaime sees that this young man still has a lot to learn, but he dares to have hope in him because inexperience is something you can work against with work and effort, but a good heart is something you either have or lack.

“You know that I don’t demand…,” Jaime means to say, but the young man holds up his hands to gesture him to stop. “I know that you don’t demand anything in exchange, but I felt like giving it. I saw that you lost something and realized I could help replace it. Smiths tend to fix what they see lying around, so this is actually my nature speaking foremost.”

He holds out the bundle to him, and this time, Jaime takes it. Frowning, Jaime puts it down on the table. From the weight and feel he can tell that the object is of metal, which shouldn’t come as a surprise as he just received something from a smith. Yet, it has him wondering, so Jaime flaps the folds back slowly, surprised to find a metal hand underneath. It resembles very much the one he used to wear. Tobin did not pick it up when it fell off his arm back when he pulled him out of the rubble underneath the crypts and Jaime forbade him to go back there to fetch it once the lad realized it gone.

_It’s with her for good. She was the one to give it to me in the first place… and in that way, the one who wanted it foremost._

The metal hand now resting in the one of flesh he has left is rather plain in design. It is not golden and there are no vines running across it like there used to. The only embellishment is the emblem of the Lion of Lannister carved into the center as though it was the heart of the hand, on the verge of starting to beat with life.

“It’s an alloy party made from steel, which is sturdier than the one of gold you used to have,” Gendry explains, folding his hands in his back while Jaime continues to study the gift he just received.

“Well, I would hope not to have a roof drop on me a second time to have it demolished as much as the old one likely was,” Jaime comments, twisting the object around with his left, holding it against the light with curiosity.

“It is also lighter, as you will have noticed. The alloy I used has the advantage that it is harder than gold but lighter.”

“There is no denying that you know your craft, Lord Gendry.”

“I’d hope so. I didn’t sweat in forges for most of my life to unlearn it the moment I wear a fancy doublet,” Gendry snorts, which has Jaime smiles back at him in turn. Because it is this kind of conversation that makes him all the more certain that this lad may be much more than his father used to be. Because he is hard-working and has the heart in the right place.

“Thank you very much for this… It is… most kind of you,” Jaime says, looking the man in the eye with utter gratitude. To tell the truth, he nearly forgot that he walked around with only just his stump instead of the golden hand until that very moment.

Jaime accounts that to the familiarity he only ever felt for a few weeks back at Winterfell, because back then, he forgot it every now and then, and left it discarded whenever he went to bed to lie beside her. Because to Brienne, he was no damaged good, the hand was in the way, she even joked on one of those rare occasions. While it may have served him well in a fight, she said, he didn’t have to hide the stump from her, the scars. And only then did Jaime ever truly realize the weight of that gift Cersei once made him. There was a time when his sister may not have cared whether he wore it or not, but that was fueled by twisted passion foremost. With Brienne, however, it felt entirely different, not to have to wear it, because she wanted him to do as he chose. And so, Jaime had enjoyed the weightlessness for a time, back at Winterfell, and let that scar tissue feel skin when it only knew metal, cloth, and shadows.

Ever since he woke up in Masha’s house, Jaime didn’t miss it, though Jaime reckons it is now lacking if other people notice around him. And perhaps it’s better that way, to keep the weightlessness treasured, reserved, for the woman who gave him that liberty Jaime didn’t know he denied himself until she set him free of it.

“I thought it’d be good to have a replacement for your coronation and… well, I owe you one more that I didn’t even think about until I found myself a forge to work in,” Gendry goes on, forcing Jaime to frown at him. “Which would be?”

“Making this hand… it reminded me of where I came from. That this is still home. I grew up in the streets now in ruins, but I was lucky enough to make for a better life before the Dragon Queen swept across King’s Landing. However, not everyone was as lucky as I am. I didn’t have an awful lot of friends, but I had a few good ones I left behind back when I went away. And as I found myself a forge and worked on that hand for you, I saw them… _some_ of them… and they are alive thanks to you. So I thought… the least I could do was get you a new hand. Because I already know how to do that. Forging metal is something no one has to teach me. It’s the other things I still have to learn, as I intend to keep my promise to you… and them, but this… I could do now.”

“I thank you,” Jaime says, bowing his head. “I really do.”

“Well, I hope you find it fitting. It’s not as fancy as the last…,” Gendry mutters, but Jaime interrupts him before he can, “… I like that about it, very much.”

That was always the thing he hated about the hand back when Cersei gave it to her, not just the knowledge that it was meant to cover the absence of an important part of himself, but also that it was designed to be decorative, pretty, even. None of what led to him losing that hand was pretty, though. It was covered in mood and blood, drowned in horse piss and shame, and no amount of gold, not even the most elegant ornamentation, could do away with the reality of how he lost that hand and why. But with Cersei, it’s always been that way. She only saw her own reality, and for far too long, he lived inside it, until he believed that this was why they only mattered because only in that world he thought he could exist.

_But then there was light._

“Good, I’m glad to hear that,” Gendry says with a smirk.

“I appreciate this, I really do,” Jaime says, nodding back at his new hand.

It’s a fresh start, a new beginning, and perhaps one of those bad things Jaime can finally leave buried in the crypts beneath the Red Keep for good things to grow out of them at last.

How else is he supposed to bring light to the darkness looming over the city if he can’t even seem to begin with himself?

“And you can smack people with it, still.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

* * *

 

Davos can’t help but be amused by the accuracy with which Lady Brienne described young Podrick Payne going about the children and her own actions by comparison. Whereas he reenacts every scene with his hands and feet and whatever body part he can bend to give more gravitas to his words, standing on tables, jumping over broken chairs, always eager to point out to the great deeds of Ser Brienne of Tarth, she will sit in a corner and watch or busy herself handing out the goods they bring.

He is glad that he could convince the young woman to spend some time with him, not because Davos prides himself to be particularly great company, but because he dares to think that Lady Brienne smiles more often than she did whenever he saw her in passing at the orphanages and soup kitchens both frequent.

Because, while Lady Brienne may beg to differ, he finds her smile quite charming.

Davos knows that it is not his concern to ask for reasons why she acts so different from the woman who, for some weeks back, seemed to shine brighter than any torch in the halls of Winterfell, hiding smiles, walking with the lightest of steps.

Nevertheless, Davos is not blind, and as a smuggler, you naturally pick up on gossip as well as cues people give away unintentionally. Even though he no longer uses it to his own advantage, it is a habit hardly dying out. Thus, he knows the _source_ of her demeanor, the man he serves as Master of Ships now, and Davos also knows what likely used to bring that shine to her blue eyes back at Winterfell, as it, too, relates to that same man.

What made the two part and how, that is what Davos doesn’t know and doesn’t want to ask either. He doesn’t find it right of him, simple as that. Though sometimes he surprises himself with wanting to know after all, is shocked at how often he is on the verge of asking her questions about just that matter. Not because Davos is nosy, _by no means_ , but simply because he sees something very unexpected in that woman, something strangely familiar. And that even though he didn’t dare to think they would ever as much as get along, not after what happened to Renly thanks to Stannis’s orders, thanks to the Red Woman and her wicked magic.

Lady Brienne was quite clear about the matter the first time they saw one another again after she brought Lady Sansa to Castle Black.

_And I certainly feared she may draw that marvelous sword of hers on me._

Though to her credit, she always seemed to understand the difference between judging a man for his wrongs and seeing that some people are forced into those acts by people who have more power, more might. Because if your king gives you an order, it weighs heavier than most will even begin to imagine. It doesn’t speak you free, and neither did she speak either the Red Woman or Davos free of the guilt they will both have to bear for the death of that young man Lady Brienne was sworn to defend, even beyond their graves.

However, the weight of the blame always seemed to shift towards the man who gave the orders instead of the man or woman who carried out the act when it came to Lady Brienne. It is something Davos found very rare in this world, and something quite peculiar for a woman who seems so set on the old codices, who upholds the knightly virtues of goodness of truth, of honor and justice.

It almost seems like an error in her ways, something that does not belong, that she would make the difference for his part in Renly’s murder or in that of the Red Woman. Yet, Davos came to see that it actually comes from a place of realism mingled with her own ideals, to create a kind of honor that can survive in a world that forgot itself and the importance of promises and oaths long time ago.

The more he thought about it, the more he dared to watch her from afar, Davos understood that Lady Brienne was taught those lessons not by Renly, not by Lady Catelyn or Sansa Stark, but by the man now supposed to carry the title Stannis was so desperate to have. Because, undoubtedly, Jaime Lannister is not a name naturally inspiring words like “honor” or “virtue” if you asked people on the street.

_At least some weeks back it wouldn’t have._

That man did some bad things Davos himself does not find right. Not that this sets him apart from most others Davos has seen stepping in the wrong direction because they found family or power much more important than anything else. However, what he always appreciated about the man even before he gave him is vote during the trial was that Jaime Lannister never hid it. He lived with peoples’ misgivings for the better – or worse – part of his life. And undoubtedly, when it mattered, this man did an awful lot of good, an awful lot more than most others did.

And the Master of Ships must admit that he can’t speak himself free of the blame of having followed Jon Snow into the city to take it. They should have stopped before but did not, and then it was too late.

_That, too, is something I will carry beyond my grave, though hopefully someone, whatever magical power it actually is that lives on the other side, will show some mercy with a smuggler with only five fingers._

Davos came to see that Lady Brienne’s differing treatment of those who give the order and those who follow it comes from just that place Jaime Lannister emerged from, because she came to see the good in a man she otherwise would have been forced to write off as irredeemable in the eyes of the codices she upholds. And if someone like Lady Brienne can see the good in him, he finds it’s actually quite natural, if hard for the mind to process at first, to admit to the goodness of those people who have done horrid things but did so under orders, and did an awful lot of good thereafter.

And he dares to hope that the same applies to him by the end of the day.

So no, Davos did not imagine to get along with Lady Brienne back when it became apparent that they would both stay at Winterfell for a longer time. She kept her distance and he kept his. Yet, ever since he saw her being knighted, Davos can’t deny that it made him see things differently than before, that it cast a new light on her. Ser Brienne of Tarth piqued his interest then, but it did not come to bloom until the horror destroyed nearly all living things in the capital. Davos starts to see it now more than ever, however, and no longer dares to shut his eyes to it.

He sees his son and the girl who was not his blood but whom he loved as though she was his daughter in this woman. Davos can’t even say why exactly, because Shireen was so different in character, and so was his son. He can only tell that he sees their faces swim up before his eyes whenever he is around Lady Brienne, simple as that. He sees his son when she is stubborn and he sees Shireen when she treats him kindly and smiles her uncertain little smile. In those little fragments, they seem alive, and perhaps somewhat selfishly, Davos finds himself clinging to those moments of a memory refreshed. Or maybe it’s just that faint hope that he may be of aid where he failed with his son and with Shireen.

_Because, despite my age, there is still so much to learn._

“… And then m’lady slew that undead man and his head flew right across the yard and hit another one in the head, knocking that one’s head off as well!” Podrick narrates, forming an arch with his hands to underline his point, the children looking at him in awe, only to stare at the woman knight with even more admiration.

“Pod,” Brienne says with a warning tone.

Her squire smirks at her before focusing his attention back on the children sitting in a circle around him to listen to his tales of the Long Night. “Well, she knocked off his head most certainly, and it flew very, very far. Though I may have imagined the other head falling off in the haste of the fight. Yet, the head did fly off, I can say that much without a second of a doubt.”

Davos chuckles to himself. It doesn’t fail to surprise him how little the woman seems to see herself despite the fact that she appears to have a rather straightforward view on the world, including herself. Because not long ago this young woman claimed not to know what it’s like to stand on this side and only ever give her father worry, when Lady Brienne doesn’t seem that awfully far away from the other side, just for a young man she did not bear under her heart for nine moons.

“So you were the only woman who fought in armor?” a young girl with raven hair asks her, sitting not far from Brienne, studying the woman knight intently.

Brienne leans forward, offering an awkward smile. “No, men and women both fought bravely for the living. There was one girl, no older than you, I believe, who killed an undead giant. Lyanna Mormont was her name and she wore armor, too.”

“Just like you?” the girl asks, her eyes almost lighting up with sheer excitement upon hearing this.

“Just like me,” Lady Brienne confirms.

The redhaired girl tilts her head to the left side, her unruly curls falling into her face. “Where is she now?”

“She died defending the people at Winterfell, her people of the North. She was very brave till her last moment, though,” Brienne tells her.

The girl looks down then, staring at her feet. “I want to be brave, too.”

“You think you are not?”

The girl shakes her head, not daring to lift her gaze again. Davos watches Brienne as she chews on her bottom lip, pondering her reply.

“What do you think makes you brave?” she asks at last.

The small redhead shrugs her frail shoulders. “Well, killing a giant is brave.”

“True,” Brienne confirms, leaning forward slightly. “What else?”

“I know Tobin’s brave. He and the other soldiers got us out of the house before the green flames came,” she explains.

Brienne nods her head. “Yes, they were very brave. And what do they all share?”

“I don’t know.”

“They protected people, right?”

“Yes.” The girl nods her head.

“Well, to me, that is what bravery is all about. That you protect others. I heard that you didn’t let go of your brother’s hand until you came here, is that right?” Brienne continues.

The girl nods her head once more, sniffling softly.

“Then you are already very brave. You protected your little brother,” Brienne tells her, which prompts the girl to turn her head, her curls bouncing from left to right to beam at Brienne, but after a moment, the bounce is gone again and she continues to stare at her feet.

“I couldn’t help my mother and father, though. I couldn’t hold their hands,” she adds feebly, on the verge of starting to cry.

Davos already means to walk over to lighten up the mood when he sees Brienne struggle to offer solace to the young orphan girl, but he stops in his tracks when she starts to speak to the little girl once more.

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t brave. Bravery is not about succeeding in saving everyone. Bravery is about saving as many as you can, the best you can, knowing that you may fail and not stopping regardless of that. Do you understand?”

The girl nods her head slowly.  

“And that means you truly were brave.”

“You mean that?”

“I know that,” Brienne answers.

“Thank you,” the little girl mouths.

“I thank you for your bravery. Now go on, I think your brother wants to play with you. And you have to show him your new toy, don’t you?” Brienne encourages her.

The girl wriggles the little wooden dagger she grabbed from the box Brienne and Davos brought into the orphanage for the children to choose from. She holds it up high in the air with the brightest of smiles before skipping over to her little brother, the bounce back in her step and her fiery hair as she shows him what she chose for herself, busy to compare it to the small stuffed toy he picked out.

Davos walks up to Brienne, then, sitting down beside her. “That was very kind of you to say.”

“I spoke the truth, simple as that,” Brienne argues, still watching the pair of brother and sister starting to play together as though nothing ever was, when everything and more was not too long ago.

He smirks at that. “Of course you did.”

And Davos must say, looking at her now, he doesn’t see Shireen, doesn’t see his son, he sees no woman knight with few smiles to give or a woman hurt by what was taken from her.

All he sees is a just woman.

“Podrick, that’s not at all what happened!”

“But it could have!”

“Podrick!”

Davos laughs out loud at that.

_And an overly honest one, too._


	6. Tales of the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Masha gets a surprising visit.
> 
> Sam tends to the soon-to-be coronated King, working up his courage to address some important matters.
> 
> And Brienne finds both reflections and things to reflect upon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for sticking around - and for kudoing and commenting.
> 
> I know this burn is slow and slower still, but I really wanted to give some narrative space to get into both their heads - and also those of some other people for some *perspective*. Since we have to get through with the coronation before we can have confrontation for JB, this chapter is also still dedicated to that set-up. 
> 
> Though I promise, it won't be long until the two sit down for maybe not a coffee but certainly some conversation.
> 
> Until then, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

“I still can’t quite believe I have a king sitting at my table.”

“You couldn’t believe to have the Kingslayer sitting at your table before either.”

“True again. I seem to invite strange things into my house.”

“Most certainly, though I am grateful for it.”

Masha chuckles softly as she leans back in her chair, studying the man sitting across from her. When the Kingslayer-King knocked on her door today, she thought she was seeing a ghost. Masha made the experience over the years that people who are given power are quick to forget the smallfolk they have the power over. As high as their towers and castles are, Masha reckons she can’t even begrudge them for it past a certain point. They all must seem like ants to the likes of them, from so far above.

However, this one is curious, she understood that by now. Say about Jaime Lannister what you will, but he does tend to be much different from your expectations of him. At least Masha came to realize that over the past weeks. While it remains yet to be determined whether his eyes will drift too far above the Red Keep any of these days, Masha will have to admit that she is more hopeful than she’s ever been with a King or Queen in her entire life.

Because the man has better memory than most seem to have, not having forgotten about the little blessings roaming the streets like little, busy ants.

_Though little do the fancy folk know that ants can move a lot of things if they stick together. Or perhaps they just have terrible memory._

“The other thing I still can’t quite believe is that you are here even though you have a fancy house now. _Very_ fancy. If a bit dusty,” Masha continues to say to the man who helped save a city with nothing but himself and a shred of parchment.

“I wouldn’t be there if not for you and Tobin. I didn’t forget that. I won’t ever,” the Kingslayer assures her, looking Masha deep in the eye, which leaves little doubt in her mind that he is sincere with his words.

_It is curious, though. Lannisters are not supposed to be that honest, or at least most of the ones I got to live under were not._

But then again, this man seems to be quite particular, Masha learned, not at all what you expect, not at all what you tend to have heard about him.

_Which is why I should stop with the gossip, I know, but it’s so much fun! And what else is there to laugh about these days for a haggard widow like me?_

“And we wouldn’t be there if not for you and your map,” she tells him, like she has done some many times, even though Masha is not quite sure if the man ever truly hears her words when she speaks them aloud. Because for a proud Lannister lion, this man before her seems to struggle to accept praise to him where it is due.

_A curious case, that one, truly._

“But in all sincerity, why are you here?” Masha questions, raising an eyebrow at him. “Don’t you have some kingly thing to do, looking all regal and mighty?”

Masha rolls her wrist in the air for emphasis, which has the Kingslayer chuckle at her, shaking his head with amusement.

“I do have a lot of _kingly things_ to do, more than I can manage, but I try… even though I don’t feel very mighty just yet,” he says, bowing his head slightly towards the end, looking much younger than he is. He reminds Masha of a shy lad, too caught up in doubt to see what he’s already achieved.

It is those moments that make her think about her own lad. When Tobin joined the City Watch, he didn’t dare tell his father at first, well aware that his old man did not approve of the choice he’s made. Hal wanted his son to get out of the city, away from the filth he carried away day in, day out, until he himself died in it. Masha was proud of Tobin regardless of her husband’s doubts and misgivings.

_Someone’s had to with that bullheaded oaf I wed years before!_

While Masha also would have liked for Tobin to rather consider learning a craft and settle down somewhere outside the city, she was impressed by the effort her back then good-for-nothing son put into it. Tobin was mostly up for trouble these days, out with his friends till late at night to toss pebbles at pigeons or ogle at pretty girls washing the laundry in the squares. Though woe betided them when she found them first and beat them with her wooden spoon for bothering the girls.

However, once he decided that he wanted to join the City Watch, he was up to no more trouble. More often than not she saw him practice with a stick or shooting arrows at targets instead of bothering the poor pigeons with some rocks.

The day Tobin told her that the City Watch had taken him in, that he would be a member henceforth, she saw just that expression she sees on the Kingslayer just now, unsure about how much that achievement means, waiting for judgment. Back when Tobin told her, she did what every mother would do: Masha held him close and said to Tobin that she was proud of him. And to her lad’s credit, he did just that, as the little blessings he helped save during those dark hours will attest for the rest of his life.

_If not a little further._

Tobin’s expression only ever changed when he finally told his father about the City Watch. Masha can still remember that moment in surprising clarity. Because it was so priceless. Her Hal was never a man for many words. He didn’t give out praise easily, always complained about her stew, even though it was his favorite dish. That day, he didn’t say it either, though she would have liked her husband to. Yet, Hal did put his hand on Tobin’s shoulder and said to him in passing: “You decided to walk that path. Now you’ve to go till the end. And if I see you slackin’ off just bloody once, you’ll shovel shit with your old man till the day you die, understood?”

Tobin didn’t understand it back then though Masha did, having been married to that man for longer than Tobin could remember his father’s face. She didn’t tell her son, despite her urge to let him know that this was Hal’s odd way of saying praise. Masha figured Tobin would have to find out on his own, though to this day, she isn’t quite sure if her son understood that far from elegant riddle his father gave him.

_When bullheads collide… everyone’s left none the wiser and nothing but a raging headache._

“That still didn’t answer my question, you see. So, what brings you here to me, at that time of the day, hm?” Masha wants to know from the man sitting across from her. He chuckles softly at her, scrunching his nose. “I suppose I am running away a bit, if just for a while.”

“Oh, we don’t need a king on the run!” she scolds him, if playfully.

“I am not leaving the city, I promise you. I am not going anywhere,” he says, and Masha believes him, she does.

“I know that much, or else you wouldn’t have come back when King’s Landing was bloody well burning… but what would you need running away from, now that the fires are all out?” she questions, tilting her head to the side slightly.

He sighs heavily. “Just about everything.”

“Well, I suppose that’s the bad side of being all rich and powerful. Suddenly you are all important and people want to know your opinion on all those important things like what brocade to make your fancy new clothes from.” She shrugs her bony shoulders, nodding at him. “Very important matters, these things, aye?”

“For some of them, seemingly,” the Kingslayer snorts with amusement, nodding down himself as well. Masha couldn’t help note that he looked far better than last she saw him, how different. It wasn’t just the clothes, the doublet with red velvet or the cleaned boots, not even the trimmed beard and hair. When she opened her door for him for the second time in her life, Masha saw yet another man approach from the one she bid farewell before he was escorted to the Dragonpit, only to be pronounced King thereafter.

He looks much more alive, vibrant, even. And yet, there is still something gray and ghastly about him that even the brightest shade of red brocade can’t overshadow. For what it seems, there is a part of him still waiting to wake up from the slumber under the rubble, and Masha does not yet know what has to happen to make it so.

“It did have its advantages to be a stranger for a while,” the Kingslayer chuckles softly, looking around the house with fondness.

“You weren’t a stranger to us long before they pronounced you King,” Masha argues, surprising herself with how much she apparently means those words. A few weeks back, she would have cursed Jaime Lannister’s name like any other person would have done. The Kingslayer.

And Masha doesn’t seem to be the only one shocked at her admission. Because the man sitting across from her widens his eyes, the corners of his mouth nervously flexing a few times before looking down with a shy smile. It leaves her wondering how often he was told such a thing in all earnest, though she doesn’t reckon that number to be high.

_Because all gemstones and gold in the world can’t buy you that, apparently._

“I am glad for that,” he says and she smirks back at him.

_Curious case indeed, that one._

“So… how is Tobin?” he then asks.

Masha lets a heavy sigh at that. “Full of himself all the way to the brim.”

The Kingslayer laughs at that, amused. “He deserves it.”

“He deserves a beating,” she scoffs, wrinkling her nose.

Tobin reminds her far too much of his good-for-nothing days, shooting at pigeons and ogling at girls in squares. While she didn’t yet catch him do either of those things, she feels any urge to pick up the spoon and smack that smug grin out of his face. He saved people, fine, good, more than words can begin to express, but Masha didn’t raise her son to be smug.

“Well, I am sure that if there is someone to hand it to him, it is you,” the younger man argues.

“You bet I will,” Masha laughs. “Who else is supposed to when his old man is no longer there to do the deed?”

When Hal closed his eyes one final time, Masha found herself trying to be both for Tobin, a gentle mother and a protective, strict father. She dares to hope that she managed to walk that tightrope most of her days, but one can never know how much good or harm that did. Masha believes her son came out mostly alright. Some things about him still make her want to chase him out of the house with her wooden spoon, but he has the heart in the right place. And that is what counts.

_Even if he could stop parading himself some time soon, unless he fancies himself feeling that spoon again after all those years it was only reserved for cooking stew._

“I think you should show some mildness with him, though. He’s young, he still has a lot to learn,” the Kingslayer argues, and deep down, Masha knows he has a point.

That doesn’t mean she likes it, though.

“And I will make sure of it,” she assures him. “I won’t raise a witless, smug fool, even when he’s long since past the days when he was short enough for me to just drag him away from the streets and into the house to give him a lecture about the wrongs of his ways.”

“He really is fortunate to have you looking after him so that the pride doesn’t go over the brim,” the younger man chuckles softly, and Masha finds herself joining in.

In her heart, she knows that she is fortunate with her son, more fortunate than most others are. Masha got to see and had to live under sons who liked the pain of others. And she lived under those who ran from their responsibility when a city was held tightly in the clutches of a Mad King, whilst the son was busy elsewhere, making war, making more people die, stealing women. Her Tobin is not like that. Not at all. He saved people’s lives and didn’t destroy them. He kept walking the path to protect the city and didn’t lose his way in-between, at least not to her mind.

_Just the bragging is bloody well annoying._

“It sure as the Seven Hells burn hot will not,” she lets the Kingslayer know.

“That is reassuring. He is a good lad.”

“He has his moments,” Masha snorts.

The Kingslayer chuckles at her, his voice turning into a small, rather satisfied hum as he lets his gaze wander around the room he’s stared at many days when in her care, bound to stay inside while the sun only ever peeked through the windows and the many cracks.

“So… when’s that whole coronation ordeal supposed to go down?” she then asks, sucking the inside of her cheek into her mouth.

“Just a few more days from now, after I am officially pronounced healthy enough to kneel down without messing up your stitches,” Jaime answers, for a moment looking up to the ceiling with the many cracks in it. “Even though it’s still rather unbelievable to my mind… But it is indeed happening.”

“And then you are all mighty and powerful,” she says, waving her hand in the air. “Our new King.”

“A King of the Rubble.”

Masha rolls her shoulders, smiling. “I think there is worse.”

“I’d hope,” he sighs.

“We all do.”

“Well, if not, I count on you to lead the rebellion against me,” the Kingslayer says.

“You bet I will.”

“With wooden spoon in hand?” he asks, grinning.

She smirks. “How else to lead a rebellion? Swords are overrated to my mind. It’s much more fun to see men being humiliated by being hit by kitchenware.”

“All the more reason for me to act responsibly. I wouldn’t want to be shamed by you and your kitchenware,” he laughs.

“You bet you wouldn’t.” Though Masha is fairly sure that her spoon will be used for her son instead, and the stew Hal complained about but still always ate until it was all gone, _because_ it was his favorite dish, and that was why he talked about it so much.

“Speaking of coronations… there is another thing I’d like to talk to you about,” the Kingslayer then says, leaning forward in his chair.

“I won’t hide you in my house anymore. You go and be King and become all mighty and powerful! No, no. My duty’s done,” she huffs, waving both her hands at him.

“That’s not what I was going to ask.”

Masha tilts her head to the side. “Then what?”

“If you so choose to attend the ceremony, I just want you to know that you are both honorary guests for whom I have reserved a special spot at the front,” he goes on to say. Masha cocks an eyebrow at him for that. “Why would that be?”

“You two saved me, I told you often enough, didn’t I?”

“Oh _please_.”

_Not that again._

“I owe you my life, the both of you, Masha. Not just for… for pulling me out of the rubble or tending to my wounds, not even for keeping me hidden from the Unsullied,” he says, absently brushing his fingers over his new metal hand. “I owe you my life because you showed me the little blessings. You showed me my purpose, and that helped save me, too. And I couldn’t repay for it in a lifetime, but… but I want you to see that… that as King, I shall try, now mighty or powerful or not.”

Masha does something she doesn’t often do with men outside her family, even less so with those who hold a title of any sort: She grabs the man’s left hand and squeezes it tightly. Because that man is, indeed, a friend of the family. The Kingslayer is a part of their lives now, part of lives that only ever continued because he and others were willing to give their lives for them, for the little blessings.

_Strangely so, he is one of us now. And that may make him a far better King than most I got to know._

Because this would mean that he is not all the way up on his castle to only ever see them as ants. It would mean that he is down here with them, looking them in the eye, never averting his gaze, never turning his back on them.

_The Seven shall be damned for their curious ways, making the likes of me reconsider what I thought was fact in my old days._

“And… I’d just really like to see some familiar faces at the coronation, to tell the truth,” he adds with a nervous chuckle.

She grins. “ _That_ I understand.”

“And I hope _you_ wouldn’t waste good tomatoes just to throw them at a King you don’t want,” he goes on.

“You bet I won’t. Waste of food. For that you have rocks, plenty of them.”

The Kingslayer leans his head back, sniggering deep in his throat, wincing when he breathes too much into the still healing ribcage.

“So you will come?” he asks eventually.

“If I find the time,” she teases.

He winks at her. “Most kind of you.”

“How could I say no to my future King?” Masha then ponders.

“Just like you said no to the Kingslayer,” he answers, meaning it.

“Good to know that some things don’t change,” she mutters with a smile.

“I promise you they won’t.”

 _But others do_ , Masha thinks to herself. Other things change and keep changing.

Because she understands right at this moment that before her doesn’t sit the King, doesn’t sit the Kingslayer.

Before her sits Jaime Lannister.

_A friend of the family._

And that is a change she can very well live with.

* * *

 

“That may sting.”

“I’ve had my hand chopped off with a rusty sword. I will be fine.”

“Can’t harm to warn,” Samwell Tarly chuckles hoarsely as he prepares a swab he dabbed into an ointment of his own creation to prevent infections of the flesh.

It is still rather strange to Sam to be in the Red Keep as the Grand Maester, just like he finds himself breaking out in nervous sweat whenever he sets to the task of treating the wounds of the man they voted to be their next King. He earnestly lost count of the many items he dropped in front of him – and nearly on him a couple of times.

Though to the King’s defense, Sam would mean to add that the older man tries anything to dissolve the tension in the air. Sam can’t imagine he would have been greeted with a pat on the shoulder by most other candidates for that political position beside Jon, perhaps.

He still misses Jon dearly. Though after all that’s been, Sam reckons his best friend is where he always belonged, now with Targaryen blood or not, back in the North, because that is where his heart always resided, where it could beat lightly. He was surprised by the relief he saw on Jon’s face when he told him what was decided to be his fate, going forward from his act of Queenslaying for which some kind of punishment was demanded to have the Unsullied leave King’s Landing.

“I never wanted power, Sam, you know that,” he told him that day. “And now I can be without it again… It came at the greatest costs, but… I think I’ll finally have peace, or at the very least I’ll have enough time to find it, in the North.”

However, in the end, Sam accepted it and made his peace with it, the same way Jon seemingly did long before the moment he walked out of his prison cell, back into the light of a city laying in ruins. And yet, Sam imagines it to be unspeakably tough on his best friend, after all that happened, after all he was forced to do, after what he did and didn’t do in King’s Landing, after so many of them failed because of power, the Game of Thrones.

_It is tough to be the one to stay when others go._

It doesn’t make Sam miss Jon any less, but it makes his heart a little less heavy thinking about his dark-haired friend with an ever tight smile. Because the last he saw of him, Jon managed to smile again, despite all that’s been, despite all he lost.

Yet, now Sam is confronted with the reality of serving King Jaime Lannister, not Queen Cersei Lannister, not Queen Daenerys Targaryen, not King Jon Targaryen but Ser Jaime Lannister, future King of the Six Kingdoms.

So yes, Sam is nervous, despite the fact that he knows what he is doing. He treated Ser Jorah’s Greyscale successfully. Compared to that, looking after the healing process of the stab wounds, abrasions, and bruises on his King’s body seems rather straightforward. That doesn’t stop his fingers from shaking every now and then, though.

_Or being clumsy in general._

“Easy breaths, Grand Maester,” he can hear the man sitting in front of him say. Sam whips his head up to look at him, blinking repeatedly. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been holding your breath this whole time. In fighting, that is when you tend to miss the target,” the older man lets him know, offering a gentle smile.

“My apologies,” Sam says, sucking in a few deep breaths to calm himself. “Your Grace.”

“No need to apologize. I just don’t want you falling over, out cold.”

“I don’t fancy that either,” Sam agrees, thinking back to the times when that would have been much more likely, back at Castle Black, back when Sam may have known all that there is to know about the word “bravery,” but having been unable to live by its virtue. He is a different man now, though, a man who learned to keep fighting even when he is afraid, even when his knees are shaking.

Or when he is dropping swab after swab in sheer nervousness.

Thus, Sam sucks in another breath before setting back to the task to treat his King’s wounds, working much swifter this time around. While he has seen it with other soldiers before that those hardened by battle flinch not nearly as often as he himself tends to do, it never ceases to amaze Sam: How much a body can take without breaking.

Looking at the bare-chested King before him, Sam can trace an entire chronicle of battles lost and won, faint scars that were neatly stitched, others that likely never saw a healer’s hand, quickly and messily stitched back together to keep the wound from bleeding out the whole body. Particularly the stump is a mess Sam still wonders how he ever survived, granted that treatment by a maester without chains only came very late. And now fresh wounds were added to that book of a body, some of which still leave Sam wondering how the man ever made it out of the rubble alive. Edd was only wounded once and fell in battle. Because no matter how much a body can take without breaking, sometimes they shatter like slates of ice.

_And there is nothing you can do about it, even if you do your best to battle your own fears and keep fighting._

“I thank you, by the way,” the King then says, pulling Sam away from the thoughts of Edd’s eyes before the Dead took his friend away from him, back to the chamber and Sam dabbing the man’s side with ointment.

“That is my duty, Your Grace.”

“Still, I appreciate it that you take the time.”

“It’s quite alright… in fact, there is nothing much I have to do when it comes to your treatment. You really were in truly good hands before. That woman stopped the bleeding in a way I wouldn’t have known how,” Sam marvels, unable to keep back his smile.

He studied many books on medicine at the Citadel, but none showed him the stitch this woman made to keep the wound sealed efficiently enough to allow for circulation. Neither did he read about the use of myrrh and honey as a way to stop bleeding as the former is not as potent as other plants. Yet, this body did no break, as the healing marks pay testament to it, which means that this woman apparently achieved something not written in a book.

_At least not yet._

“If you want me to introduce you to Masha, I can very well arrange for that,” the future King says. “I mean, she is tough at times and may give you a bit of a hard time to let you know about her little secrets, but you may have luck. She took pity in me.”

“Oh, I’d like to speak to her by all means. There is still so much to learn. And I have no intention to stop just yet,” Sam says, smirking at the thought. He still wants to put his treatment of Greyscale into writing for future generations, though perhaps he should reconsider and instead dedicate some time to the practices of the smallfolk. They have a lot of knowledge no one bothered to put down on parchment, for what it seems. And yet, some of those practices apparently saved a King’s life.

_That should be worth putting into writing, right?_

“I have a lot to learn as well, so we seem to share in something,” the older man says, which surprises Sam. Looking at this man’s body, he learned a lot of lessons already. Though he can’t deny he is glad to hear that. A ruler who is aware that he is not above knowledge is something Sam appreciates a great deal. They had rulers before who thought they knew it all, who thought they knew how this world should function and saw no other way than their own.

And those are the rulers Sam came to regard as most unfitting, even if some may have had truly good intentions, he doesn’t know.

_Fire won’t ever solve it, though. That much I know without a second of a doubt._

Sam is quick to wrap the still healing wounds with strips of linen, making sure they are tight but not too tight. He eases into the routine of those movements, having practiced them many times already. It gives Sam confidence, because that is something he knows how to do.

“You can put on your shirt now,” Sam says once he is done.

“So I suppose I will keep living?” the future King jokes as he leans over to grab his tunic beside him.

“Very much so,” Sam says, washing his hands in a basin. “I can attest that you are in good health, against… great odds. While the wounds are still not fully healed, I believe it is only a matter of time until you will make full recovery, Your Grace.”

“Hm, that rules out the possibility of bypassing becoming king by just deciding to die,” the older man snorts before pulling his head through the tunic a little awkwardly.

Sam chuckles at that. “Afraid so, Your Grace.”

Because that man’s body endured whereas others shattered under the weight of power or burned through its heat.

“… How is, uhm, how is Gilly doing?” his King then asks. Sam looks at him a little stunned, but then gathers himself to stutter quickly, “Very well, very well, thanks for asking. And, and also thanks for… you know, getting rid of some of the rules that come with being a Maester, particularly Grand Maester…”

He waves his hands around, realizing too late that he didn’t yet dry them, which sends droplets of water flying through the air, right at the King’s face. Sam winces, mentally preparing a rushed apology already, but the older man only ever blinks against the water in his eyes, otherwise going on as if nothing ever was.

And truth be told, Sam is glad for once not to be called upon his fits of inaptitude. While most will give him a pass on those matters, knowing that this is just how he is, it only dawns on Samwell right at this moment how liberating it can be when someone does not make it an issue but simply goes on as if it was nothing.

Because it should be nothing, compared to all the great somethings lying in the past and future yet ahead.

“Speaking from my own experience, those were never quite good rules,” the King goes on to say, gesturing at himself.

“Right,” Sam agrees, swallowing. Who is he saying that to, really? This man spent the better part of his life with a vow to never hold titles or have children, and while Jaime Lannister has forsaken that vow in ways Sam finds questionable at best, he knows from even shorter experience than his King’s just how hurtful it is, to be forbidden from loving, from living a life that is not just the Night Watch’s, not just the King’s, but that of a family of your own making.

_It is no good rule indeed. But it takes a courageous ruler to change them, because they are so old._

Sam had to learn that lesson himself back at the Citadel, when searching for a cure for Ser Jorah. Because the Maesters told him that the old rules were good, that they held absolute authority. However, reality, he also learned from living outside the world of books, hardly ever fits those pages. Knowledge can be found in books, yes, but experience and growth only ever happen outside its pages.

“I very much agree, Your Grace,” he adds a moment later.

“Good… because I think enough families were ripped apart as of late, so we shouldn’t create any more starting with you just because you are now Grand Maester,” the King concludes.

Sam finds himself strangely intrigued watching the older man going about tasks that most others don’t pay any mind to, such as lacing his shirt, stuffing it into his breeches to put the doublet over the tunic and fasten it in place. But for a man missing a hand, all those tasks require effort, require conscious thought and consideration. To this day, Samwell finds it fascinating, how the body functions, how it finds new ways of doing things once learned in only one way but never another.

“Well, be it as it may, I can attest that you are well enough to be crowned,” Sam says, the corners of his mouth nervously flexing. Because thinking about the coronation always brings his mind back to Jon, and then inevitably the woman he slew.

And then his mind goes further back, still, and Sam forgets, once more, how to breathe. Because there are truths out in this world you have to live, not read, but there is also knowledge you can’t learn because no one put it into writing, couldn’t possibly, because the parchments were burned, leaving nothing but ash.

_And that even though I need to know, just so that I…_

“Is there something else you wish to speak to me about, Grand Maester Sam?” the man asks as he shrugs into his doublet. The King makes an effort to sound casual about it, though there is a sincerity in his voice that has Saw stare at him, wide-eyed.

 _Can the man read my mind?_ Sam wonders for a brief moment, quick to discard the thought, however, reckoning that he would have read about that somewhere. He knows that he is terrible at the task of keeping his emotions hidden from the outside world. It may have proved to complicate things for him more often than not, but Sam found that being honest to one’s feelings is not a bad thing. If not for it, he wouldn’t have Gilly by his side now, he wouldn’t have a family of his own.

 _Family_ , he thinks ruefully, tasting bitterness on his tongue.

Yes, there was something. There _is_ something. It is right there with Sam with every turn of the page of another heavy tome in his study which he reads to distract himself more often than he cares to admit. It is right there with him when he goes to sleep, taking a few moments to look at Gilly, her bright, gentle smile and her beautiful swelling belly, and Little Sam peacefully snoring between them. Yet, it is something Sam had to bury deep inside him as all hell broke loose in the capital.

Just because he buried it doesn’t mean it’s gone. In fact, it’s crawling out of its shallow grave every day a bit more.

However, the man who may give Sam what he is seeking is right there in front of him, acting normally around him. So maybe Sam can dare to speak to him about those matters. After all, he wants to know, needs to know, has to know, even.

And yet… perhaps it is asked too much, even more so of his future King.

“In, in fact there is something… but, uhm, I would perfectly understand if you… I mean, and only if you have the time, that is. I know that you are a busy man, as you are King and…,” Sam stutters, looking down, wishing for a book to be in his arms to ease his mind, but there is nothing to cling on to, so he just keeps moving his hands around in a way he knows does not inspire confidence.

“Just go ahead. If it takes too long, I will cut you short, can we agree on that?” the older man says, his tone milder than Sam would have expected. And he really wants to jump on that sensation and hold on to it, clutch it tight and not let go, but a man who wears his emotions on his sleeve has to tread carefully, he knows.

He learned.

“… I don’t… I don’t demand an answer, it’s really just…,” he goes on as he pulls over his chair to sit down on it with a thud. He can see the King’s eyes following his every movement, though he supposes it is a habit most soldiers have. At least he has seen just those gazes often enough in the eyes of brothers of the Night’s Watch.

“It’s just _what_?” his King asks, his voice even and perhaps even a bit calming, Sam is not entirely sure. Though he would like it to be intended as such.

“As you will know, uhm, since you were there, I mean… so you should, technically, and not just technically, because it is a matter of fact, but…”

“ _Sam_.”

The dark-haired man looks at his King feebly, already fearing that he wasted the chance with his babbling, but the older man just sits there and waits. And he is grateful, he is.

_Right, there is something I want to know, and he has the answer. So I must ask. Otherwise I cannot learn._

“… You… you knew my father and… and my brother. You fought with them back when Daenerys Targaryen, hm…,” Samwell begins, finding himself momentarily out of breath, though thankfully the King completes, “Yes. But I can’t tell you… of their last moments, if that is what you intend to ask. I was not there when they were killed.”

“I know that much, but… but I was wondering… Have you spoken to them before… they died?” Sam asks, the air catching in his throat.

He tries to be cheerful. And most of the time, Sam manages, against all odds. When he visits the sickbays, Sam makes sure to keep his smile in place when he tends to the wounded and sick as they need any encouragement they can get. In front of Gilly he also tries his best to smile, not wanting to upset her, even less so in her current state. And Little Sam does not yet understand what most of these things mean and Sam hopes he can have the boy play without thoughts of battlefields between people instead of people and monsters for a while longer. However, there are those thoughts nagging at him, memories that make him stop for a moment as he treats burned skin and flesh. Because it all brings him back to _them_ and how they burned until nothing but ash remained of their bodies, their lives.

_Not even enough to put into a grave, however shallow._

“Well, I spoke to your father quite a bit of course, as a general of mine,” the King says, bringing Sam back to the uncomfortable chair he is sitting on.

“Of course. I mean… evidently, that is…,” Sam mutters.

_Of course he spoke to them. That’s not what you wanted to ask, though, Sam! Pull yourself together! You did so against the living dead! You can do it with the King, too! You have to!_

“Terrible man, from what I heard… and could witness myself to a certain degree,” his King goes on to say, offering a tight grimace.

Sam nods his head slowly. “In many ways.”

“Well, speaking from my own experience, bad fathers don’t always bring forth bad children. Looking at you, your sister… and your brother… that remains true. And I dare hope that… looking at my own, Tywin Lannister’s children weren’t all _entirely_ terrible.”

“Most certainly not,” Sam assures him quickly.

While he finds many things very terrible about his sister, and a few things he finds quite shocking of what he heard about the man he now calls King, he also heard one of the greatest stories about just that man sitting before him. A man who saved many lives with nothing but a map, a piece of writing, a story in images that helped contain the stories of those people whose histories remain untold.

_Like those of the woman who knows how to use myrrh and honey to close wounds so efficiently. Or those of the children in the sickbay who recover from their burns._

Sam knows there are likely many stories about their new King none of them got to know. Some they may never know, but he dares to hope hear at least a few, not just out of interest and his innate curiosity, his strive to learn, but out of a hope to find the true story behind a King mostly still shrouded by the shadow of the name “Kingslayer,” the one mostly untold. Because Sam considers it his duty as Grand Maester to make chronicles about the future King as accurate as he can, and that means he has to learn more about this man’s true story in order to put it into writing.

And strangely so, there may be some connecting matter most people wouldn’t ever know. Because time has the ability to create the strangest bonds, for better or worse, connecting a now King to a now Grand Maester, though they didn’t cross paths until they met at Winterfell.

“How was he, the last you’ve seen him, my brother, I mean?” Sam then finally asks, daring to come closer to what he wants to know deep in his heart but has trouble asking for because his entire body revolts against the knowledge, the fear of the truth. Because Sam knows his brother’s last moments were far from happy, far from peaceful. They were likely filled with screams and searing pain.

_And a bit of fear, perhaps._

Sam doesn’t want to know those truths, doesn’t want those facts to become part of his own story. After all, he should be happy. Sam got most of what he ever wanted to have in his life. In contrast to most others, he got to keep his makeshift family, got into the position he always dreamed about already as a boy. Yet, he feels miserable, late at night yet wide awake. Because he keeps having feelings that he doesn’t want to show on his white, roughspun sleeves. Because they should remain inside himself. He doesn’t want to think those things, let alone feel them, doesn’t want them to be his story to tell.

_But I have to know, I just have to, or else I will keep asking myself, never getting an answer, staying none the wiser. And Dickon doesn’t deserve that, and neither does…_

“Your brother fought bravely. He saved my life during that battle,” the King says.

Sam smiles at that. It sounds like something Dickon would have done.

 _And it sounds like something my father never would have thought sounded like me, even if it were to be true_ , he adds to himself, feeling a stab in his chest for even thinking that.

“Well, that is fortunate, considering that he saved the future King,” Sam says with a shy smile.

“I hope that it was fortunate… I would like to do my best to make it fortunate… I liked him, your brother.” The older man looks down, grinding his teeth silently. If Sam is not mistaken, he can see regret in his posture, his mimic, an unspoken “I couldn’t save him, though” hanging on the tip of his parted lips as his jaws keep working.

“Did you?” Sam asks hoarsely.

“I will admit that I forgot his name the first few times… and then someone else started making jokes about it…,” the King says, and Sam adds with a gentle smile, “Oh, I imagine. I don’t know why Father chose that name, never understood. No one did. But no one dared to ask either, let alone object.”

“But I… once I got to know him a bit… I really started to like him. Dickon reminded me of myself in my youth… before… well, I got twisted and turned a couple of times. Good man, brave soldier, but… also someone I could tell wouldn’t want to be there,” he goes on, which has Sam wrinkle his nose in confusion, “And you find that good?”

Normally, it is seen as a virtue to want to fight, and Sam’s father always saw it as an error of his ways that his oldest son didn’t feel the strive to hunt, to kill, to fight with swords, to long for all those things he believed made a man a man. Most people tend to think that way, Sam realized very early on in his life, as his clever mind made him see already at young age that he was not like most people. That is why he was always looked down upon, because he didn’t have that thirst, didn’t feel that hunger.

Thus, to hear from a soldier, a general, a former Lord Commander no less, that he liked Dickon for the fact that he _didn’t_ enjoy being on the battlefield, makes no sense inside Sam’s mind. It is like a paradox to him, in fact, and he has yet no clue how to approach it, let alone solve it.

“Very much so. People who love war… they are dangerous. They have no interest in stopping a war or finding an alternative. There is a difference between enjoying a good fight and enjoying war. One is a test of your own skill, the other… nearly always means the death of those who have no choice but to fight. So yes, I rather have a man who enjoys a good fight but doesn’t like to be on a battlefield than one who also fancies the latter. Because they chase war where I want… peace.”

Sam blinks, surprised by the King’s words. While he is not shocked to hear that the man seeks peace, after all, his actions here in King’s Landing pay testament to that very sentiment, Sam is surprised that someone as battle-tried as Jaime Lannister would come to regard war in that way.

Though perhaps what is true for Sam may also be true for him: They are not like most others. And they are not what most others think about them.

There are many untold stories, and Sam will have to admit that with his own King, he is only at the very beginning of the book, for what it seems.

“After we took Highgarden, Dickon admitted that it was his first battle… There is a certain thrill to a fight. It just happens. Your blood gets boiling. And that… feels good, for a while at least,” the older man continues to ponder.

“Right,” Sam mutters. He felt those flashes himself, however brief, when fighting against the Wildlings for the first time, and against the White Walkers as well. There was a rush in his ears, his heart beat faster than he knew it could, even faster than it did when he felt frightened. And there was something that told Sam to keep going, going, going. It scared him, but in the end, that, too, helped keep him alive. And yes, that creates a certain thrill, however sickening it may be.

“Your brother surely felt the same thrill, but one could also see… well, shock… fear, even. And as odd as it may sound, I was glad to see that. Because I came to the conclusion that the best men are those who are scared but fight despite it… That’s what your brother did till last. And from what I hear, you two actually had that in common.” He looks at Sam, offering a gentle smile that nearly has the younger man choked up.

“I never dared to think that there was much beside the name and blood we shared,” he admits feebly, his voice shaking. Because that was what he was always told. That he had nothing of Dickon’s bravery, prowess in fight, nothing of his ability. Sam felt like Dickon was everything he was not and vice versa. However, here sits a man who still doesn't know much about him, his story, and who only ever got to know his brother briefly, and yet… Yet he says something Sam never thought could actually unite them, but it does.

_For once, it puts us on the same page._

“Bravery comes from the strangest places, I learned. Like many, he did not deserve the death he was given, but he stood bravely in fight, that much I can say,” the older man adds, his voice barely audible.

“No, he didn’t deserve that… You see, my father, he was… hm, really not a good man… But my brother? I loved him, even though there was nothing much to connect us. I still love him, very much.”

And he misses him, late at night, wide awake. Because Dickon couldn’t help it that their father treated Sam the way he did. Sam never begrudged Dickon for it. In fact, he felt sorry for his brother to be pushed into that role.

However, there is another thought, far more nagging than this one, those taunting what-could-have-beens and what-ifs.

What would have been, had Sam been better at hunting, killing, fighting with swords, being a man, had he been more of the firstborn Randyll Tarly would have wanted him to be?

Maybe Dickon would have stayed at home during the battle at Highgarden, then, and Sam would have fought in his stead, would have burned in his stead. Granted, he never would have found Gilly or Little Sam either, and likely there are a million possibilities of how all of that could have gone instead. Yet, late at night, wide awake, Sam can’t stop his mind from painting those scenarios in which his little yet taller brother wouldn’t have gotten the sad ending he received whereas he got so much goodness handed to him, so much more material to fill the next pages.

“It’s not just your brother, though, is it?” the King then asks, and Sam almost feels like dropping off his chair.

Because that man said what Sam wanted to ask about, said what he can’t wipe off his sleeve no matter how hard Sam tries to wash his hands of it. Sam doesn’t want to feel bad. He wants to feel happy. He doesn’t want to mourn his father. He wants to mourn his little brother only. Because Dickon was good and kind and brave. But late at night, wide awake, Sam can’t help but feel remorse for the loss of the man who took so much away from him, even though Sam doesn’t want to feel that way, not anymore. He doesn’t want that man as part of his book anymore, and yet, he feels the quill hovering above his head every night, painting his white sleeves all black.

“Family works like that, let me tell you. And sometimes even those people that are terrible to us, those people who mean us no good at all… we still feel pain when they die, when we lose them… Even though we wanted them to get lost and leave us alone, let us be who we want to be and never look back.”

Sam has an idea who he may be referring to with that but doesn’t dare to push the matter any further. Even if Sam wanted to, he likely couldn’t, because Sam finds himself so caught up in his own emotions that he can’t help fidgeting around with his sleeves full of invisible marks speaking of a mourning he doesn’t want to feel anymore in the face of the light he sees ahead of him.

_I want to be happy, I want to look into bright futures, and yet, I keep looking at this past and feel sad about it. I don’t want him to make me feel that anymore. I don’t want this to be my story to tell anymore. And yet, he does. And yet, I do. And yet, it is._

“It’s strange. I never expected to shed a single tear for that man. For my brother, of course, but for him? And yet…,” Sam admits, his voice shaking. He quickly wipes over is damp eyes, not wanting to start crying in front of his King by any means. But that is the problem with people wearing their emotions on their sleeves – they always have trouble hiding them in bright daylight, which is why Sam tries his best to keep them for the hours late at night, wide awake instead.

“As I said, family does that to you. For better or worse. It’s not wrong to feel it, though. At least I want to believe that myself.”

Sam looks up. That man seems to understand what he himself could not figure out on his own, no matter the amount of books Sam read to enrich his mind, to find answers where he has too many questions. Because yes, he despised his father, still does. And yet, he misses him, a small part of him _does_ miss him, though Sam doesn’t dare to admit that, to himself, to Gilly, or anyone else for that matter. He misses that man even though he was terrible, even though he was hateful and wanted him dead.

He doesn’t want his father dead. And he doesn’t want Dickon to be dead anymore.

Sam wants a second chance he knows won’t come. He wants a chance to treat their wounds and nurse them back to health, the same way he treats burns in the sickbays, asking himself why those people lived while his people died from a dragon’s fiery breath. Sam wants to ease their pain, not create it, but he can’t ease their suffering, not anymore. And it comes to him, night after night while wide awake.

It is part of his story now, whether he likes it or not, whether he wipes his sleeve over the fresh ink to smudge it away until it is a shapeless darkness.

Sam didn’t want his father dead, yet he is. And there is no relief, there is just grief beyond measure, a grief he can’t dissect, can’t reason with, because it is for a man Sam would otherwise find undeserving of that feeling after all that he’s done to him.

Grieving Dickon, that came natural, but grieving his father, it is something Sam doesn’t feel he should do. And yet he does, every night again. And for the first time ever since news reached him, ever since he talked to Daenerys Targaryen about it and she found it her right and duty, he feels like someone understands it, truly understands that dilemma inside his head, wrestling with his mind for dominance.

Because from what Sam knows by now, his future King, too, speaks from experience. It is tough to grieve those that gave so many others such grief beyond a word’s description. It is tough to mourn those who may have deserved for their stories to end.  And yet, the heart feels it, whether the mind wants it to or not.

Because the heart cannot be dissected, the organ, yes, but not the metaphor, the feelings attached to its meaning. They are blurry and muddy and darker than any ink. Unspeakable, unknowable. They make you feel pain for a death you may even have wished upon. They make you miss a person you wanted out of your life for all your life. They make you want that person not to be dead when you wished that person was just that for so very long.

The heart is a mystery, and Sam knows that this is nothing he could put into writing to make sense of. It is the kind of truth that is only ever felt.

However, sitting here right now, for the first time, Sam allows himself to feel those feelings in bright daylight, in the presence of his King no less. And he doesn’t feel like gesturing around with his arms or smiling away the stains of emotion he feels clinging to the fabric of his sleeves.

It may not ease the pain Sam feels in his ink-stained heart, but it gives him the answer to the question left unsaid that is still understood between them: Is it alright to feel that way?

And Sam finds that it is.

And that, in itself, gives him some kind of relief, some idea about how to start a new chapter.

And perhaps far more importantly, it makes him see that he is not alone with that. There is something he, Samwell Tarly, if very unexpectedly, shares with a man he still has to learn so many untold stories about.

And that, too, lets Sam dare to hope that he will get a better night’s sleep this time.

Because he wants to dare to be brave like his brother used to be and embrace that fear again instead of running away from it inside his mind.

_This is my story, too. And I will keep writing it, I have to, because they cannot do it anymore, the both of them._

“I am sorry for your loss, Sam.”

“I am sorry for yours, too, Your Grace.”

And he finds himself at peace with it as bright light comes shining through the cracks in the walls, painting shadows on his sleeves, because those stains, he knows, don’t have to wash away. They are right where they belong.

With him.

His story bound to be continued, hopefully adding many more pages, not just of himself but also those whose stories still lie in the dark.

For now anyway.

* * *

 

Brienne plunges the wash cloth back into the small metal basin she was given by the innkeep with a thump. Some water spills out and onto the wooden floor, painting black circles on it, some big, some small, some gleaming like gemstones, others already turning back to shades of brown as the wood thirstily drinks the water back up. She wrings the cloth out with both hands before sitting down on the edge of her straw-filled bed to press it into the nape of her neck. Brienne sighs as coldness creeps into her heated skin.

Apparently, she stayed up North for far too long, in more than one way. Because, while this is not her first stay in King’s Landing, it is only now that the summer heat gets to her, having turned pale skin to shades of red and pink.

Brienne didn’t notice the first few days until one evening, Podrick was concerned that she was having a reaction, only to realize that, yes, she had earned herself some sunburns on her neck, the cheeks, the top of her nose, and the back of her hands.

_Apparently, there are still ways to make me more ungainly than I am by nature._

She takes it as another way of the Seven to tell her just that, she was North for too long. And now the sun rains down on her when it didn’t bother her at all before, back when she walked in the gardens with the man to be crowned King.

It’s not that Brienne is bothered by the sting the reddened skin comes with. When you battle knights with swords, earn yourself blisters, and chafe your shoulders from a heavy armor you can’t put down as you travel a prisoner, or when fight the living dead, you learn what _actual_ pain is. And compared to that, a sunburn is no more than a mild discomfort. Though it leaves her wondering whether it is indeed a sign, now by the Seven or whoever else. Is this truly where she is mean to be or does Brienne simply run after something far too late, long since out of her reach?

_All over again?_

Because Brienne knows for a fact that she stayed too long at Winterfell, too long to change anything, to save somebody, anybody. But is she chasing ghosts here? And is the sun itself trying to tell her so? Brienne is unsure, and the thought alone gives her unease. Because where else is she meant to go if not here? Where else is she supposed to walk her circles until she finds a way out of the maze of her own creation?

 _Be it as it may_ , Brienne interrupts her own contemplations, not wanting to return to those much darker thoughts lurking behind the maze’s corners much further towards the center, its beating, aching heart. Because in there wait echoes she doesn’t want to hear anymore, can’t bear to hear anymore.

About failure and regret.

About what she failed to do.

Whom she failed to make stay.

Whom she failed to save.

Whom she failed.

Brienne appreciates the reason for her sunburns, however. _Against all odds_. Because they come from standing out in the sun too long, from handing out food and other necessities alongside Davos and the others, to help where she can. It gives Brienne at least a sense of purpose, gives her some reason, when she is still left wondering about whether she is doing what she is meant to do, is what she is meant to be.

Though Brienne doesn’t appreciate the heat eating away at her night, leaving her even more restless than she is as usual ever since… _well_. Brienne’s eyes drift over to the single cushion and thin blanket, mentally pushing furs and fires as far as she can down the maze, to where it is much darker.

_Not now. Never again. Remember this at last, will you?_

She takes the warmed cloth off her neck and plops it back into the basin. For a moment, Brienne finds herself mesmerized by the droplets flying out of the bowl and crashing onto the floor. Because it makes her think about the rubble that flew through this air not long ago. The rubble that crashed onto the ground, over and over again, nearly tearing the whole city down along with it.

_The rubble he was underneath. The rubble they were both under. And I was not there to…_

Brienne blows out air through her nostrils as she picks the cloth back up, not bothering to wring it much with her balled fist this time. She rubs it over her pale, reddened face, grimacing at the discomfort. She ignores the small waves of pain it gives her. In fact, a small part of herself relishes them.

 _Serves you right_ , she can hear some faint voice whisper far away inside her head.

 _You should not complain_ , says another, closer this time. _You weren’t here, were you? You were in the North, keeping your fire going._

Brienne gets to her feet abruptly and walks over to the small cabinet missing a leg Podrick repaired by doing what the serving girl in the inn did, sticking some fitting stone underneath it.

On top of the cabinet stands a looking glass. A fine crack runs right through it and the sides are already cloudy, distorting the reflection, blurring it out at the edges, bending the light in sometimes unexpected ways. Brienne bends her knees lightly to take a look at her split face in the mirror. She gently probes her fingers at her red, slightly swollen cheeks, which glisten with beads of water running down her face.

For a moment, Brienne believes to see a ghost in it, but then makes out the contours of her own face. It brings back memories she tends to leave behind in the maze as well. Because studying her reddened features now, Brienne finds herself back in time, back to the night she understood for the first time that she was indeed the ugliest girl in the whole world. Just that back then, her face was not red from laboring in the sun but from crying and rubbing her freckled face furiously, as though that could wipe the ugliness off of her.

_Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work._

Those were the times when Brienne didn’t think about knighthood at all that much, except for her childish imagination leading her on to dream of white stallions and gallant knights coming to sweep her off her feet and carry her off to an adventure.

She was traditional back in those days, at least inside her childish mind. Because Brienne did not understand that she looked anything but traditional. It was the body that didn’t match her mindset. Brienne fancied herself to be the princess, not the knight, at that time. And while in her dreams she always undertook adventures alongside the gallant knight and imagined herself to fight evil alongside him, Brienne still fancied herself a dress. And at night she dreamed about how the knight would eventually realize that she was the one for him.

That, to him, she was the most beautiful thing in the world, a beauty only he could see.

 _Children are foolish that way_ , Brienne thinks to herself with a tight grimace. _Because in the real world, there is no way for an ugly girl to be seen for the most beautiful. One can only count on forgetfulness, of being seen and looked at for something other than your looks._

As King’s Landing’s fate should attest, life is hardly ever like it is in the fairytales, however, rendering her childish imaginations all the more superfluous. And Brienne should have known better than to find herself lost in those imaginations all over again, and that as a grown woman, hardened by ridicule, strengthened by fight and discipline.

_I should have known better. And yet…_

And yet, it wasn’t long ago that she locked herself up in her chamber with a red face that came not from sunburn but from crying. Because she stayed in the North for too long, far too long, until it was too late.

And yet, before that night at Winterfell, Brienne had actually lived that childish fantasy. She had convinced herself to go against her old Septa’s advices, which she had considered a victory only to herself, when in fact, it had only ever marked her loss. Yet, Brienne, by the time, had dared to leave the looking glass aside. She had not searched for another mark, another part of herself to find ungainly, out of convention, just not enough. She had wanted to believe that, yes, fairytales could become reality, if in unexpected ways.

_And I was a fool to believe that. Because I knew better. I always did. And yet…_

And yet, she held on to those fantasies like she held on to _him_ , even though Brienne knew that it was all in vain from the beginning because there was never a way for her to live a fairytale, let alone get one of its happy endings.

For that, her life was too much of a mess, an ongoing complication. For that, she is too little of the material such tales are spun out of.

Certainly, the journey that led her back to those fantasies she discarded as a girl, back when she decided to pick up the sword for the first time, hardly were the material for tall tales. After all, no one writes about how to relieve yourself while wearing full armor or how hunger can hurt all the way to your hairline when in captivity, or what fear you live through when some grimy men pull you into the brushes to have their way with you. That is not the stuff for stories or legends. And even if it were, it is not the way tales work. In the tales, everything is easy, without effort. There is one obstacle, and the hero will always overcome it.

Because he is the hero. Heroes always make it. They cannot fail because the hero is not meant to fail. He doesn’t have to sacrifice, and even if he does, it will return to him before the last page is turned.

But in life, in real life, sacrifice is inevitable, and hardly ever is it paid back in kind. One man left to go may betray you for a bundle of gold and give away who you are. One shout can be enough for a formidable swordsman to lose his hand. One lie told to protect can force you into confronting a bear and nearly dying in the attempt of slaying it with no more than a wooden sword. One living dead can bring you down and make you one of them. One dragon can annihilate an entire city and take hundreds of lives in a single strike.

In the tales, heroic deeds are done with the surety that the knight will win in the end. _Because_ he is the hero. But in life, it isn’t so. Heroes don’t always win. Some heroes turn to villains. Some villains turn heroes and kings. People lose more often than they win and they don’t get it back by the time one reads the epilog. And those who win are left wondering how to go on when so many lost so much, much more than they can give back in a lifetime.

Nonetheless, Brienne dared to believe that her story may take a turn for good, to make it a happy ending story, up where cold winds blow and snow falls softly late at night while fires are cracking in the hearth.

_But I stayed in that ending for too long, when the fires had actually already gone all out._

Brienne winces when she presses down too hard on her cheek, probing the reddened skin absently. She really forgot it all, all those things she knew, and thought herself in a fairytale, a real one, one made flesh. Because it felt real enough. It was born from struggle, sacrifice. And rarely did they win before _that night_. Breinne dared to hope that yes, this was their victory and they could finally live upon it.

But it wasn’t so. And she was foolish to believe it in the first place.

Because Brienne wasn’t enough.

_I never was._

She never was the princess in the castle. And despite the honors Jaime bestowed upon her before the battle against the living dead, Brienne starts to doubt that she ever was a knight in the tales either. And that in spite of the role she assumed for herself when it dawned to her that she was the ugliest thing in the world – that if she couldn’t be the princess, she could be the knight of her own story, rescuing fair maidens and bringing justice to the world.

_So what role do I play in this tale, if neither of those?_

Brienne’s eyes focus back on the mirror again, her split face. And while the crack is in the mirror, she can feel it throbbing underneath her skin, threatening to just open up when she mustn’t let that happen. _Ever_.

She knows she shouldn’t care about those things. Beauty is an odd concept to her mind anyway, the values attached to it. A pretty face won’t save you from a White Walker. It can’t keep you from corruption. It can’t keep you from losing what you hold most dear in life. So no, that didn’t make much sense to her, the obsession with something meant to wither away eventually, whereas steel and training stay with somebody for much longer, through generations, in fact.

Because even when your bones grow brittle and your legs get shaky with age, you can pass knowledge on. Granted, if you come to have a child and are of a pretty face, the child may come to inherit it, but discipline, training, ability, knowledge, those things can stay with you and new generations for much longer, which is why Brienne came to consider it a concept much more worthwhile pursuing than trying to rub just hard enough at her teary face to wipe the ugliness away.

In fact, when Brienne understood that she was the ugliest girl there was, she welcomed bruises, abrasions, cuts, marks that stayed with her and didn’t fade. She spent hours in front of her looking glass to trace them with her fingers and smiled. Because to her mind, they were no statement for or against beauty, they were a testament of her struggle, her discipline, the fights she fought, those she won, and those she lost.

And yet, here came a time thereafter, years later, when Brienne was aware of her bruises, aware of the cuts. She didn’t see them the way she used to when she picked up the sword for the first time – until she did again. Because her mirror wasn’t a looking glass, it was _him_. And he looked just as battered, just as beaten, over with bruises and cuts, though just as beautiful as she always came to see him.

And yet, he looked at her as though she was no what she understood herself to be, what she learned to accept to be, the ugliest thing in the world.

For that time and that time only, Brienne didn’t feel ugly. The thought didn’t even cross her mind that night after the feast. She just saw her mirror image not at all like her and yet, curiously the same as her, battered, beaten, yet shining brighter than any light she knew. And that reflective face, it looked at her with disbelief, with adoration.

_The way the knight gazes at the maiden he falls in love with upon first sight… or so I thought, wanted to believe._

Because that wasn’t what they were, even if Brienne, however childishly, let herself believe in it. It was wishful thinking all over again, as though life had not done its best trying to finally teach her that bloody lesson.

Because she wasn’t his mirror and he wasn’t hers.

Because they never were each other’s reflections.

It was a tale they told themselves, hoping for it to become reality.

Yet, for what it seems, they were only reflections of what they wanted to be but couldn’t ever become, no matter the effort, no matter the sacrifice.

She thought she could be a maiden and a knight, whose ugliness didn’t matter behind visor and shield.

She thought she could be the woman who could rescue the knight from his own troubles, could make him stay away from the dragon threatening to kill him.

She thought she could be the woman only he could love.

The only woman he could love.

_But it wasn’t. I was not._

And what he thought to see in her ungainly reflection? Brienne can only ever guess, still none the wiser. She fears the answer to be much more straightforward than the maze inside her head, one path leading right to its center. However, unable to walk it, she tries to find another way around it instead, to only ever walk along its lines to learn its outlines, its underlying pattern.

Because if Brienne were to guess, he saw in her the man he wanted to be but couldn’t.

The man who wanted to be by her side but couldn’t stay.  

Because his actual mirror was elsewhere.

And that is where he went, not looking back.

_Not once._

Because she wasn’t the only one.

She never was.

She was never meant to be.

Because she wasn’t the maiden. And neither was she his knight in shining armor, keeping him from his own darkness.

And he? What is he? What is his role in this tale?

A knight. That goes without saying, a truer knight than most proved to be these past days where honor was rare and sacrifice too much to bear.

A knight who came to her rescue, and that even though she wasn’t the one, never was.

And now he is the King.

_So what is left for me? What role am I to play in this tale?_

Because, as far as Brienne knows, there weren’t stories about woman knights with sunburns on their noses, roaming the streets of a city they hardly know, handing out bread and toys to strangers to give herself purpose when she can’t fight any in herself after all that’s been.

Because she stayed in the North too long, kept her fire going until it was all out.

And now the fire of the sun burns on her nose, reminding her of the fire that went out, the light that went out, if it was ever even there, or merely was the reflection of another woman she gazed upon in the reflection filled with adoration she wanted to be her own.  

Brienne sighs as she stands up straight again, glowering at her split face one more time before sitting back down on the edge of the bed. She doesn’t want to be reminded of it all. She wants to forget, leave it in the maze, and only ever walk along the lines of its edges to find another way out of it.

The already halfway dried cloth flies back into the bowl with a splash, but this time she pays no mind to the drops sloshing out of the basin, leaving dark stains everywhere. They will dry in the summer heat anyway. In no time.

They won’t leave marks or scars.

Just like those memories do not.

And so she can’t relish them.

Because they don’t come from a fight.

They come from giving up.

And that is tearing at Brienne more than she wants to admit, more than her heart can bear at times.

_Because I was charged to be brave. And yet, when it came to it, I…_

Brienne whips her head around when the door opens, pulling her out of the maze to the wooden door of her quarters.

“Seven Hells, Podrick! We talked about knocking first, yes?” she scolds, her entire body stiff as a poker as she sees her squire slip inside.

“Yes, my apologies, I was just… I didn’t know you were…,” Podrick stutters, gesturing around wildly with his arms.

Brienne shakes her head with a sigh. She knows she can’t take out her own frustrations on the lad. He is not at fault.

_That is me and me alone._

“It’s alright,” she assures him quickly, shaking her head. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to be so brusque.”

He smirks softly at her. “No offense taken, m’lady. I _should_ have knocked.”

“You made the delivery, I take?” Brienne asks quietly, chewing on her bottom lip.

“Just as m’lady asked me to,” Podrick confirms, beaming at her prouder than he should, because she still feels childish for not having dared to make the delivery herself. But she couldn’t bear it, not yet anyway, to go near that place.

Though Brienne knows she will have to visit that part of the maze rather sooner than later. Because she can’t bypass this forever, she knows. That is what reality is about as well, not like in the fairytales where those conundrums just magically disappear.

_But one step at a time._

“I thank you,” she whispers.

“Always at your service, m’lady.” Pod smiles, but then looks back to the still open door. Brienne narrows her eyes at him. While a seasoned knight once told her not to grimace before lunging, Podrick certainly didn’t yet fully master concealing his emotions either.

_It appears, we all still have a lot to learn._

“What is the matter, Podrick?” she asks suspiciously.

Pod looks at her, spooked. His mouth opens and closes a few times, but before he can make even an attempt to answer, someone steps through the door, shouting, “Lady Brienne!”

She stares at Ser Davos as he slips through the open door, followed by Gilly and Little Sam. Brienne shoots a glance back at her squire, who only ever shrugs his shoulders with an apologetic grin.

 _Apparently, we also are due a conversation about bringing guests without informing me_ , she thinks to herself.

“Good day to you,” Brienne then says dutifully. After all, she can’t fault Ser Davos or Gilly for coming here when she has any suspicion that Podrick readily invited them to come over.

“Good day to you, too!” the two answer in almost unison.

Brienne still finds herself struck by how cheerful those people tend to be around her, no matter how sour her mood may be. While she is fairly sure that Pod and Davos make the effort to cheer her back up, Gilly strikes her as a woman who is just naturally cheerful. Brienne finds that both curious and strangely fascinating.

“So, what brings you here?” Brienne asks, looking at the two with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, you do, of course,” Davos chuckles, folding his hands in his back, bouncing up and down on the balls of his heels.

Brienne watches as Little Sam makes his way about the room as though he owned it, seemingly on a quest to discover some kind of treasure. Though she makes sure to keep an eye on him, should he come too close to the wooden chest where they keep their spare weapons. He is still a bit too young for those.

“I believe I don’t follow?” Brienne says, looking back at Davos, then at Gilly as she sits down beside her on the bed, always smiling so brightly that Brienne feels any urge to return it, if only she got her jaws to work without making it a tight grimace.

“Well, Gilly and I ran into Podrick when he made his way back to here. So we reckoned we might just as well pick you up,” Davos answers.

Brienne cranes her neck. “Pick me up for _what_?”

“You do know about the coronation, yes?” Davos sniggers. “In case you haven’t heard…”

“ _Of course_ I know. But it won’t begin until much later the day,” Brienne argues.

Her mind tried to stay clear of that topic, that thought. She wasn’t even sure about whether she would attend.

Or rather, if she should.

Because Brienne doesn’t know if she is wanted there. After all, their soon-to-be crowned King should have his mind free of all troubles, if only for a day. He is supposed to focus on this, and she wouldn’t want to be any kind of distraction.

 _Though then again, I can’t imagine that he would see me in a crowd_ , she ponders.

“The people are out there celebrating already,” Gilly tells her, bouncing up on the bed once, reminding Brienne more of an excited girl than a soon-to-be mother. “And we thought we should join them, you know, keep the spirits high. And that includes you, of course. The children already asked about you.”

“I believe I told you that I am not a particularly good company,” Brienne argues, looking back at Davos, who only ever smiles at her mildly. “And we told you that we don’t care.”

“Or are you feeling unwell?” Gilly asks with concern in her voice. She tilts her head as she takes a good look at Brienne. “Maybe a bit too much heat?”

Brienne rubs her hand over her face with a tight grimace. _Right_ , she is all red in the face, looking ridiculous. How could she forget?

“It’s just a sunburn. It’s a rather hot summer,” Brienne mutters, turning her chin away from the younger woman.

“It is. And since I come from the far North, I had sunburns all over when I came South for the first time,” Gilly recounts, but then takes out a small jar she hands to Brienne. “That should help. Sam made it for me.”

Brienne blinks at the jar, then back at Gilly, before taking it. “Oh, thank you.”

Gilly beams at her. “Sam made enough for a year, I believe, which is why I always have some with me. So just let me know if you need more. You simply have to rub it on the sunburned skin and it will go away much faster. It cools nicely, too. Oh, and it smells of gillyflowers! Sam added the scent for me.”

“It’s good that he looks after you that much,” Brienne says softly.

“I have to look after him the whole time, too, so I suppose we are even on that,” Gilly ponders.

Brienne nods her head silently as she uncaps the jar and does as Gilly advised her to. She certainly didn’t lie about the effects as Brienne can feel cool spread across her inflamed skin like an ocean breeze.

“Thank you again, and to Sam.”

“He’ll be delighted to hear that he is of help.” Gilly grins at her.

And it is right at this moment that Brienne realizes that, for once, it really isn’t about her looks that someone gives her something to ease her skin. It is her wellbeing that the people in this room are concerned with.

It is her they are concerned with.

And she will have to admit, it is nice, this feeling.

_And apparently, it smells of gillyflowers._

“So? Can we convince you to tag along?” Davos asks once Brienne puts the jar down on her nightstand, making a mental note to apply that cream in the evening again to hopefully give herself easier times to drift into dreamless slumber.

“Do I have much of a choice?” Brienne huffs.

“Little Sam here would likely be very disappointed,” Davos laughs, scratching his beard.

As though to emphasize his point, Sam decides to climb into Brienne’s lap right at that moment, making the older man only snigger ever the harder at the sight. He always seems to take his pleasure, seeing Brienne dealing with children eager to interact with her despite her insecurities.

“And you will be staying with us the whole time?” she questions as Sam makes himself comfortable in her lap wordlessly, as he made a habit of it ever since Gilly and she came to interact more in the soup kitchens and orphanages.

“In fact, I can only stay for an hour or so before I have to head to the Red Keep again and instruct the remains of the City Watch to… well, keep watch over the city,” Davos informs her.

Brienne sighs, not liking the sound of it at all. While word spread fast about the acts the new King did to save the people, animosities are fires hard to put out, far too easily catching flame again. It has her worried, very worried. Because Brienne is not the knight in shining armor, coming at just the right moment to the rescue.

_And what if I come too late all over again? What if this is how the story concludes after all?_

“It will be alright, I assure you,” Davos says, seemingly sensing her insecurities.

Though then again, it doesn’t take great skill to see that, Brienne imagines. She is about as bad at hiding those things as Podrick is.

“You really need more men, though,” Brienne ponders, grimacing. There are far too few men left after the Unsullied executed so many in the name of their Queen. And another many more were taken by fires, explosions and rubble burying people underneath. That leaves nothing much resembling a standing army.

And that is dangerous for a kingdom under reconstruction.

It is dangerous for a King meant to rebuild after all of that destruction.

_For him._

“We are working on it, but soldiers don’t grow on trees, and neither do good instructors,” Davos assures her.

“Right,” Brienne mutters, trying to leave those thoughts to another day, hoping to find no just questions but solutions for a change. “Well, be it as it may, if you have to head out later, I suppose it’s good to have someone to have an eye on you two.”

She looks at Gilly, then at Little Sam in her lap, idly looking at the dark brown spots next to the basin by his small feet.

“That would be very kind of you,” Gilly giggles.

“I want to hold Oafeeper!” Sam suddenly shouts, leaning over in Brienne’s lap to finger for the scabbard resting beside the bed. Brienne quickly grabs his little arms and sits him back in her lap.

Davos and Podrick don’t try to hide their grins at Sam’s latest word creation. While the boy speaks quite well, though he doesn’t talk that much still, this is a word he since struggles with. This is the reason why he comes up with a new combination whenever he sees Brienne carrying her sword around her waist.

 _Though he may have a point_ , Brienne thinks only ever to herself. _The man who gave it to can act like a stubborn oaf._

“I think _Oathkeeper_ is still a bit too big for you, Sam,” she says calmly. “And you need to train before you can fight with a sword, alright?”

“And you know you can’t just take other people’s things without asking,” Gilly adds, before turning to Brienne, “I apologize. I just started reading knight’s tales to him as bed time stories. And he _loves_ them all. So now he wants to be a knight, too.”

The corners of Brienne’s mouth curl upward at that. Because that only ever has her think that she seemingly is on eye level with Little Sam, though he has the excuse of age, dreaming away into faraway lands and fairytales.

“Before you can become a knight, I believe we can get you a wooden sword to practice with first, yes?” Brienne suggests. “And that you can name however you please.”

“Oafeeper!” Little Sam yelps happily.

“That will need some more practice, too,” Brienne says, tilting her head to the side with a grimace.

“I’m afraid so,” Gilly chuckles softly. “So? Are you ready to go or do you need some more time to get ready? We can also wait outside until you are done.”

Brienne shakes her head as she puts Sam down on the floor. The boy instantly goes over to Podrick, seemingly hoping he may get a hold of his sword instead, leaving the lad to twirl around unceremoniously as he tries to prevent just that. Davos watches all of that with fondness and a good amount of sheer amusement.

Brienne gets up and straps the scabbard around her waist, easing against the familiarity of its weight, the promise that came with its actual name. As for that sword’s mirror image, she can only hope this message won’t end up being misread, like she failed to interpret her reflection in another person’s eyes.

_Only time will tell._

She briefly considers the armor, but then decides against it. Brienne doesn’t fancy cooking in it, even less so on that occasion. Yet, to her surprise, she finds herself at ease without her armor, because she isn’t travelling without any kind of protection, against all odds.

“Then we should be on our way,” Gilly concludes. “I am so excited! I’ve never been to a coronation in all my life.”

“I haven’t been either,” Brienne ponders, curling her lips into a pensive frown.

“Oh really?” the younger woman gapes at her as she gets to her feet as well, one hand resting on top of her belly.

“I was to a royal wedding, once, which ended… very quickly. And after that, I left the city before the next King was crowned,” Brienne recounts.

Those were the days she believed herself to live in a fairytale, out on a quest to find and rescue a fair maiden and bring her home. Brienne thought she was the knight in shining armor, but now she is a woman with a sunburn and a sword around her waist, holding a promise she could not keep.

_Perhaps I am the oaf after all._

Gilly takes Sam by the hand and are led outside the door by a chuckling Davos. Podrick is quick to follow. Only Brienne lingers a moment longer, stopping a few feet from the clouded mirror with the fine crack running through its center.

_A smile._

An ugly one, but a smile no less, and an honest one, too.

Brienne shakes her head before walking out the door as well. Podrick locks it behind her before tagging along, the way he always does. They climb down the narrow staircase leading to the common room, which is not surprisingly empty.

After all, there is a coronation about to take place, a few hours from now.

The first coronation of a King of the Six Kingdoms since hundreds of years.

And the first King who was elected by the Great Council.

Perhaps not the most conventional hero in a fairytale, but a man who did heroic deeds when no one expected him to.

Outside the inn, it is the exact opposite: The streets are nearly overflowing. The five have to take a step back as people keep passing them by in large groups. It is quite a different atmosphere from what Brienne got to see the past few days. Excitement lies in the air, anxiety, too, but the former overweighs. The people pouring to the main squares remind Brienne of small waves, building up, rising higher, only to tumble in joyful swirls back into the water to start all over.

“Sam! You stay with me. I don’t want to lose you in the crowd! Sam!” Gilly shouts, struggling to keep the excited boy from getting lost in the tide. With her big belly, it doesn’t come as a surprise to Brienne, which is why she acts fast in her stead and without much thinking. She takes the boy up and lifts him on her broad shoulders.

“I think you can see better from up here,” Brienne says, adjusting her grip on his small legs.

“I can see de world!” the boy croons, wriggling around excitedly.

“That is quite far, laddy,” Davos chuckles.

“Just make sure you hold on tight, Sam,” Gilly tells her son. “And don’t give Lady Brienne any trouble, yes?”

“I wide giants now!” the boy shouts.

“Sam! That’s unkind to say!” Gilly argues, shooting an apologetic look over at Brienne.

“It’s alright,” she assures her.

_I have been called far worse throughout my life, and much eviler spirit._

“No, it’s _not_. He is supposed to learn to speak properly and not pick up insults instead,” Gilly insists before looking back at her son sitting upon Brienne’s shoulders. “Sam, Lady Brienne is _not_ a giant. She is a tall lady – and a knight. An actual Ser!”

“I wide Ser Briwenne. Because she’s a tall ladyknight,” the boy says, tilting his head to the side, looking at his mother with a small frown.

“… That’s more like it, I suppose,” Gilly says with a grimace. “Though we still need to work on her name, I’m afraid.”

“Good that we figured that out,” Brienne snorts, amused.

“Thank you, by the way,” Gilly whispers, touching Brienne’s arm lightly.

“It’s alright,” Brienne tells her. “I rather have him up here than getting trampled on.”

Gilly beams at her once more. “I am still grateful that you always keep us safe.”

“It is my pleasure,” Brienne answers.

Because maybe she will manage with them at least.

The group starts to walk down the street leading to King’s Landing’s center, its heart. Brienne takes the scene in with growing curiosity, all the more fueled by Sam swinging back and forth on her shoulders, pointing at places he remembers of people he recognizes, eager to wave at them and wish them a good day. What is perhaps even more curious, however, is that people recognize her, too, greet her, wave at her. Not just the children but also elders she remembers from the soup kitchens and lads she gave some extra bread to, to take back home with them.

All of this feels very different from the wedding she had to attend, a wedding that ended in tragedy. There is life in the air, despite all the destruction. People are chatting, laughing. Food is handed out alongside cups of wine, which she knows to be Tyrion’s idea. The air smells of spices and charcoal and fermented grapes. Further down the road, someone is playing music and children are gathered around the musician, clapping their hands excitedly. There is a thrum, a beat that follows another melody, drawing people in whether they want to or not.

The wedding was not lively at all. It was stiff and forced and more than anything, Brienne wanted to get away from it, from the people she knew were staring at her, judging her for wearing no fancy dress but only a long tunic and breeches. There was nothing much that made her want to stay – and beside Jaime, there was no one who likely even bothered whether she was there or not. Brienne felt so many eyes on her, no matter what she did, no matter where she turned, or to whom she bowed instead of doing a curtsy. There was music too, and much more food for fewer people. Yet, there was no thrum, no beat to follow, just a melody of chiming bells that told her to run away from truths spoken from a mirror.

_But you love him._

Brienne snaps her head around and readjusts her grip on Little Sam’s legs, making sure that he doesn’t fall over. Now is not the time to think about those things, to get lost in those mazes. Today is not a wedding. Today is not that day from the past.

Today is the present.

On this day, future shall be written.

A new tale is meant to begin.

And while Brienne does not yet know what part she is meant to play in this story, she finds herself at peace for now with the idea with being a giant.

_No, a tall ladyknight smelling of gillyflowers._

And maybe, just maybe, she can find her role somewhere between that space of lady and knight sometime in the future, too.

For now, Brienne tries her best to smile without a split face.

Because she isn’t the only one.

She is not alone at all.


	7. Crowned Oaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coronation day arrived at last!
> 
> Tyrion is busy running preparations, but his greatest challenge may be to ensure that there is a King to have the coronation with as his brother continues to struggle accepting his new role.
> 
> Jaime doesn't know what to do, he doesn't feel ready, he doesn't feel able, but there might be something to give him hope - so he can give it back to the people he is now to serve.
> 
> Brienne finds herself worried but something gives her confidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for all the lovely comments and the kudos you've been rewarding me with. They've been balm on my soul after the past weeks were all kinds of crappy for me.
> 
> Either way, I hope you are going o enjoy the chapter. I changed one thing from canon - the location of Jaime's sword, for my own plotty purposes. :D
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

“What? _No_! I told you, as much as needed, as little as possible! And this is _not_ as much as needed! Is that a bloody festoon!?”

“This is your bloody _coronation_. So yes, there is a bit more grandeur than there is for a night at one of the inns around the city! And yes, that is a festoon, no need to run from it in utter terror!”

“I don’t _care_ whether it’s my bloody coronation. I did not agree to this.”

Tyrion shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. He anticipated his brother to continue with his nearing obsession of making his own coronation the smallest the Seven, now Six Kingdoms have ever seen. Yet, it doesn’t fail to amaze Tyrion to see his big brother like he presents himself today, disheveled, pale around the nose, constantly wiping his left hand over his face, his eyes, his hair. Jaime looks positively terrorized – and much more so than he did when he was led into the Dragonpit, unaware of what awaited him.

And this is the same man Tyrion can still vividly remember riding with nothing but himself and a spear in hand against a living, fire-breathing dragon. The same man who rode into a city burning with nothing but a map of dark memories in hand, to turn better what used to consume him, the man known as the Kingslayer.  

If not for the importance of today’s event, Tyrion would take his pleasure teasing the older man about his straight-up fear, after all, that is normally the role he occupies, but today is not the day. Not at all.

This is one of the most important days in their lives.

_And it certainly is a vital day for the newly formed Six Kingdoms. The lords and ladies will be watching like hawks and vultures. This is about showing them that this is happening, that this is real, and that there is no going back – just moving forward from this day on._

Today is the day that they shall write history.

_For better or worse._

However, the man supposed to begin that most strange tale, nervously shuffling his feet, is anything but ready for the task, can’t even seem to hold the quill in hand. Tyrion knows that Jaime has since struggled with the honors bestowed upon him, but today is not the day for false modesty. Today is the day they must be bold.

_Today is the day we must be lions._

Tyrion makes a step closer to the other man, gently tapping the outside of Jaime’s thigh with a comforting smile tugging at his lips. “My beloved brother and future King, I know you’d much rather only concern yourself with the rebuilding effort and getting the military back in shape, but those things matter, too. You are to be King under very challenging circumstances.”

He only ever huffs at that. “Oh really?”

Tyrion exhales deeply. He knows how important all of this is to his brother. While Jaime led many people to believe that he doesn’t care about certain things, about certain people who are not themselves, it’s always been quite the opposite. The issue is, however, that most people can’t seem to see past the exterior, can’t look past the shadow his name still casts and writes in black ink all over his body.

Yet, Tyrion has any intention to cast his brother in the right light from now on, so that, at last, people can see what he saw since he was a small boy who felt like a monster all the time. Because it was his brother’s light shining down on him, his undying devotion to protect, his unspoken generosity that made Tyrion feel like he was no monster. And that after all that’s been, after all the times Tyrion, too, betrayed his brother’s love, chased Daenerys Targaryen and left the family Jaime was always desperate to protect undefended.

It was this light Tyrion found again, in the shadows of the crypts when he thought he’d never see his brother’s smile again. It was this light that kept him going when Tyrion was ready to give in and leave everything to the Gods all over, even though he doubted their decisions. And more than anything, Tyrion wants people to see that light as well, wants them to step out of the darkness.

The problem is, however, that Jaime himself turned his back on his own light, thus only ever glances at the large shadow he casts.

Tyrion won’t let it stay like that, however, not so long there is might in his mind, so long he draws a living breath. He will keep pushing, no matter how small his body may be. He will keep pushing and pulling until his brother turns back around.

And he will see to it that the rest of the world will see the man formerly known as the Kingslayer for what he is: A true protector of the realm – and far more importantly, its people. That is Tyrion’s debt to his brother, to the world.

_And a Lannister always pays his debts._

“You are the first elected King of the Great Council. And you are…,” Tyrion wants to say, but Jaime cuts him short, “The Kingslayer, with all that is attached to it. Trust me, I _am_ aware.”

 _Far too aware_ , Tyrion thinks to himself. _Because you can’t seem to see anything else after all you achieved. You are more than that, dear brother, so much more. You aren’t just Jaime. You are King now._

“ _Precisely_. This is not just a display for the people of King’s Landing, not just for th e lords and ladies, this is for _you_ to present yourself as the man meant to unite the Six Kingdoms,” Tyrion argues, licking his lips. “This is no small day, no small deed.”

“And we achieve that by bloody banners flapping in the wind, hanging up festoons in bright yellow and red, left and right, or serving the finest red arbor in the streets, you think?” Jaime scoffs.

“Red arbor is always good to…,” the younger brother mutters, his voice trailing off, only to be sharply cut off by the King, “Tyrion!”

“We _are_ keeping it simple, I assure you, but there are some things that need to be done, there are some traditions to keep, even if you liken yourself to be the new King of the Rubble,” the younger man argues.

He also would much rather allow his brother to show his merit as King by letting actions follow, but politics don’t work that way. The lords and ladies of Westeros don’t work that way. Tyrion knows that better than most others ever will.

Over many years, centuries, in fact, paths were created, trampled down in the dust to make them solid. Signs were put up to tell the world that this was the only way to go – and so the world went. And while Tyrion would very much like to just leave familiar paths to find new ways, he knows that, for now, they have to tread carefully. They can only go so far off the usual tracks without having a lord or lady come out of the brushes and tell them to get back on the path – or exchange some signs to lead them off their intended course.

That doesn’t mean it has to stay that way, though, Tyrion knows that as well. And he knows for a fact that Jaime wouldn’t want to dutifully keep on tracks he believes to lead down to even darker forests. However, for the moment, it can’t harm to keep watchful eyes off of them while they try to figure out how to change the path just slightly, so that it’s hard to even notice that many miles ahead, by moving the path by just one inch to the right, a whole new road was born out of the dust.

And at its end stands light.

“I don’t care, I just… I don’t want this. I can’t just celebrate and pretend all is fine when we all know nothing about this is even close to fine,” Tyrion’s older brother insists, running his left hand over his face.

Tyrion exhales wearily at that. He can’t imagine what is going on inside his brother’s head right at this moment. Truthfully, he’s never been under that sort of pressure. And Tyrion knows that Jaime can create even more pressure for himself, born out of his belief that his best won’t suffice when Tyrion has any faith that it will be more than enough.

_If only you could see what I see in you, brother. And if only they finally saw that, too, then truly, this world would be a merrier place._

_But all in due time_ , Tyrion reminds himself. They have to be patient – and he has to be patient, too. Insistent as well, surely, but foremost, he has to be there for his brother. Because Tyrion now finally has the chance to be there for Jaime when it usually was always the other way around.

“Jaime, we’ve been there before. But today is the day. And what’s done is done,” Tyrion argues. “And the festoons are also just festoons.”

Jaime lets out a shaky breath. “I am very much aware that there is no going back from this.”

“It will be _fine_. You are just a little nervous, that’s all,” the younger man assures him.

“I’m not _just a little nervous_ , Tyrion. I am… I am _terrified_ ,” Jaime argues, tapping his palm against his chest over and over again, chewing on his bottom lip.

Tyrion grimaces at that. Seeing his brother suffer always makes him feel uneasy, to say the least. He wants those days to be filled with happiness, with jokes and smiles. Tyrion dreamed of this day to come ever since the Dragonpit. And inside his mind, it always was a day filled with light and laughter. His brother smiled and he was happy at last. He finally saw the light Tyrion saw cast on him all the while before. That was what he envisioned, and it is still his vision now.

And yet, looking at his brother right at this moment, Tyrion knows that his days are not yet filled with happiness, _not yet_. There are still dark forces pulling on him, threatening to tear him down to the rubble from which he rose. And no shining crown, catching the sunlight on its edges, can change that.

 _Only our King can_ , Tyrion says to himself. _But I have any faith that he will eventually._

Because Tyrion, for now, dares to have faith and hope for the both of them. He has so much hope that he feels like overflowing with it, but he has to be, for his brother. Tyrion vowed to himself that he would never leave Jaime’s side again, that he would do anything within his powers to support him.

Brandon Stark may have been the Kingmaker in the end, but Tyrion wants to be the Kingkeeper, the man who ensures that his sometimes annoying yet beloved big brother can finally see the light of day beyond the nights of grief.

“There is no need to be terrified,” Tyrion tells Jaime, making sure to keep his voice leveled and calm.

_I will be for you what you need me to be, brother. I am not going anywhere, rest assured. Never again will I abandon your side._

“There is _any_ need!” Jaime insists. “None of this is…”

He looks around, seemingly trying to find something in the walls of King’s Landing he can’t seem to get a hold of. Tyrion’s lips curl into a saddened frown. Truly, he wished his clever tongue would just say the magic words it would take to make Jaime see the truth Tyrion knows is already fact. However, words are not enough. Actions have to follow. Because that is the language his brother understands best.

Tyrion sucks in a deep breath before grabbing his brother’s left hand between both his palms. Jaime looks back at him, stunned. Tyrion adjusts his grip on his brother’s fidgeting hand until it becomes stiller between his own, feeling the flutter of the older man’s pulse rush over his skin, but Tyrion won’t let go.

“Jaime, listen to me, and listen carefully: You were elected. You already are King. This is all just a formality, hm? This is not the day where people decide whether you should be King. You _are_ King. This is a day to celebrate the decision already made. To forget the troubles that lie ahead of us and simply cherish what was already achieved. This is not your trial. Your trial lies behind you. There are challenges ahead, many of them, surely, but this coronation is none of them. This coronation is no more than a testament to that which you already achieved, to who you already are, our King.”

Jaime stares at him for a long moment, his eyes glistening wetly. He squeezes his brother’s hand back the best he can, but Tyrion can see his mind slip away no matter how tightly he holds on as Jaime casts his eyes down again.

“I just…,” he mutters helplessly.

“I _know_ , but trust me, it’s just a bloody coronation, like there were hundreds before, if a little different by your own choice,” Tyrion argues.

Because they won’t keep it to the Red Keep, to the lords and ladies alone, they won’t limit this coronation to a broken-down palace. They are dedicating this ceremony to the people who, for the most part, already accepted Jaime as their King.

“I… I stood vigil at coronations, but now I am…,” Jaime mutters, his voice no more than a faint whisper.

“Now you are the one who gets to wear the crown,” Tyrion tells him. “And it will be alright.”

“What has you so confident?” Jaime questions.

“Because I drink and know things,” Tyrion answers with a small smile. “And I know my King.”

“Do you?” Jaime sighs hoarsely. “I don’t know the man.”

Tyrion licks his lips nervously. “Then… then give us all a chance, yourself included, to get to know this man. And don’t you think a coronation is _just_ the right occasion?”

A small smile creeps up his brother’s lips. Tyrion smirks as brightly as he can, patting Jaime’s left hand a couple of times.

“You will be fine. No one’s going to shoot you dead or slay you while you stand upon the stage,” Tyrion adds, though the instant change in his brother’s demeanor makes Tyrion want to take it back at once.

“I didn’t even think about that, so thank you for that scenario to bear in mind,” Jaime says, his breath hitching.

“I never saw you that nervous.”

“I was never supposed to become bloody King!” Jaime insists.

Tyrion holds back a sigh because he hoped he finally got through to his brother, but for what it seems, there is no betterment just yet when it comes to Jaime’s abnormally great amount of stubbornness.

“Calm down, easy breaths.”

“Stop saying that!” Jaime shouts. “That only makes me more nervous!”

“Then just calm yourself down.”

Jaime shakes his head. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

“You fought life dragons and the living dead, Jaime. You can go through a coronation, too.”

“But for that I had a sword! I knew what to do. I don’t know what I am doing here,” Jaime argues, looking around. “Who I am… in here.”

“You just have to trust your instincts.”

“My instincts?” Jaime scoffs. “The Seven be with us if I were to trust them! My instincts led us down some very dark paths in the past. Very dark.”

“And they also saved a city from burning, _twice_ ,” Tyrion insists.

Jaime blinks at him, and Tyrion can see how much he wants to believe, how much he wants to reach out to that truth, but something inside him pulls him back, and so it is no surprise for Tyrion when his brother’s hand slips from his grasp.

“I can’t… I need some fresh air,” the older man says, turning around abruptly to walk away from him.

“This is _not_ the way outside!” Tyrion calls after his King.

“I _know_!” the older man calls back as he continues to walk away.

Tyrion sighs, one hand resting against his forehead. “Seven Hells and the God of Wine and Tits combined! This man!”

“What is our King up to?” a voice rings out. Tyrion turns around to look at Davos Seaworth, who arrived only a short while ago to talk to the City Watch another time before heading out.

“Staring at some cracks, I assume,” Tyrion sighs, watching his brother go and head into the shadows of the Red Keep, of himself.

Davos makes a face. “What?”

“It’s just… never mind,” Tyrion answers, but then turns his attention back to what he can do. If his brother needs more time, he will create it, simple as that.

“We still have some more preparations to do, am I right? So we should just do that and let the King… be King on his own, yes?”

“So we just continue as if nothing happened?” Davos asks, grimacing.

“He will show up. It _is_ going to be fine, even if _some_ people doubt that for _some_ bloody reason. Trust me in this, my brother didn’t run away from a burning city, he won’t run away from that bloody coronation. He is just having a bit of stage fright, is all.”

Davos shrugs his shoulders. “Well, I will take your word for it.”

“It will have to do. But my brother never runs from responsibility, that much I can assure you of without a doubt. Though I would have hoped that his Lord Hand would make himself a little less rare around the time to offer some counsel,” Tyrion grumbles. “Supposedly, that is his duty.”

“He said that he will be waiting outside for the coronation to begin,” Davos answers.

Tyrion sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose once more, contemplating for a moment whether he will earn himself a bruise there one of these days. He truthfully hoped that the young man would have the right words to say – because he knows much more than anyone else could ever possibly know. And yet, the boy remains silent, jus watches the events as they keep unfolding.

_One of these days the Master of Coin and the Lord Hand surely are due some serious conversation… but not today._

“Which should tell us all that we need to know,” Tyrion concludes, putting on the brightest of smiles he can muster. “If Bran didn’t know that there was a coronation, he wouldn’t sit outside waiting for it, am I right? _Right_?”

“I hope so.” Davos makes a face.

“Excellent! So I would say you go about your duties while I shall see to mine.”

“Agreed.”

“Oh, my young friend over there! Yes, you! On a word?” Tyrion shouts to a young man running errands. He already walks towards him to meet him halfway – after all, there is no time to lose.

A coronation is happening today.

He will see to it.

And if Jaime needs some more time to see that, too, he will have his back until he can.

_I can also get on the stage and tell some jokes if all goes awry._

Tyrion taps the young man’s knee, gesturing him to follow. “… So about the festoons and the wine another time, yes?”

* * *

 

Jaime keeps walking down the busy hallways, trying his best to dodge the people roaming around. He nearly stumbles once he reaches his chamber’s door. The door closes with a loud thud, and only then does he dare to breathe again.

This is all too much.

Jaime slides down the wooden door with his back until he sits on the cold stone floor, finding his powers leaving him, if they ever were there. Every single muscle in his body tells Jaime to make a run for it while he still can. Because how is he supposed to do this? How would he make work what all the people before him failed to do for so many years?

You can put a crown on a foolish knight’s head, but that doesn’t make this man’s head any smarter, Jaime knows that for a fact. Just why would the boy who knows everything believe in the Kingslayer to make this all work? How does that boy have faith in him now when not long ago, he had no faith in Jaime to as much as have a future to live in?

_And yet, here I am._

And now Jaime is supposed to wear the crown and rule six kingdoms when he didn’t even rule Casterly Rock back when he was declared its lord. He only ever gave it up and had the people evacuated. He threw those things away and now he is tasked with keeping them. None of this makes sense.

_What if I fail again? The way I always seem to do?_

Because this time it wouldn’t just be his sister he’d fail to save, it’d be a whole nation, hundreds and thousands of people, hundreds and thousands of small blessings. Jaime couldn’t bear the thought that he’d be responsible for people like Tobin or Masha to fall victim to his ill choices, to the choices of people sitting in chairs adorned with gold and silver, deciding over the fates of the many.

If he were a pious man, he’d pray now, but Jaime does not believe in the Gods. Not until he’s seen them do better, until they prove to be more just. And right at this moment, he can’t see how this choice, how him as the choice, is supposed to change anything for the better.

The man he wanted to be so desperately, the man who was humbled, who only ever thought about fighting for life itself, the man who thought he may deserve that little big blessing for himself to keep that one woman close who had faith in his honor when no one else would… this man? It was the same man who rode away from Winterfell to his sure demise, ran back to his sister and saved not nearly as many little blessings as he could have, had he acted faster, had he acted sooner, had he acted in another way.

_And this man is supposed to rule now?_

Jaime left it all behind at Winterfell. Every good piece of himself, he hoped to leave there, he hoped to leave them with the one woman who was always more than he could ever dream to deserve, could ever dream to be. He left every last bit of himself that he found good and true with her, even if it ended up as shards on the ground, the sad remains of a broken man who probably never lived, because all the good Jaime left behind, was it truly him? Or was it more of what Jaime hoped he could be but never was? Did he only leave ghosts behind? Jaime doesn’t know anymore.

If all the good in him stayed at Winterfell and perhaps died there, too, then what is he now? Who is he? How can that be enough to rule and serve a nation in dire need of goodness? In dire need of justice? Honor?

Jaime leans his head back to look at the cracks in the ceiling, the fractured testament of an old world destroyed and still holding on despite the pain, against the odds of the damage it suffered. This castle, some of it still stands, enough for people to live in, enough for a council to meet.

_And perhaps just enough for a broken man the likes of me to make a try? To grow deserving of a second chance?_

He laughs bitterly at the thought. It’s all too much wishful thinking to his mind. It’s simply all too much. Jaime lets his head fall forward again to look around his chamber, but his eyes stop at an unfamiliar sight, gleaming at him like the sun.

The air catches in his throat as Jaime scrambles to his feet. Shakily, he walks over to the study. He moves slowly, as though the sight itself may bite him like a snake ready to strike and destroy the image of light before his eyes. He licks his lips as he comes to stand in front of the table to find familiarity again where he is only ever surrounded by new, surrounded by images of a man he doesn’t yet know.

His sword.

_Widow’s Wail – still a dreadful name. They say the best swords have names, and I never gave you a new one. Why? Because only the best should wield and name them, too._

Lost in thought, lost in memory of the man who wielded it at Winterfell for one good cause, _for her_ , Jaime brushes the fingers of his left hand over the scabbard, the ridges of the ornaments. He stops at the large ruby sitting at the heart of the hilt. In this light, the ruby shines even brighter than usual. It almost seems to pulse, as though it had a heartbeat, as though it was begging to live, trying to break out of its golden shell.

 _How is that sword here?_ Jaime left it behind, like every last bit of himself, at Winterfell, _with her_. And yet, here it is, right under his fingertips, the metal sighing under his touch just the way he remembers it to. Jaime bites back a single tear as he picks the sword up and holds it against the light shining through the cracks.

Its twin is Oathkeeper.

Its twin is an oath.

An oath to keep.

And perhaps it is time to make this sword about the same thing.

Perhaps it is time to unite them in a common cause again, like at Winterfell, where Jaime believed he knew who he was and where he belonged, with whom he belonged.

Jaime buckles it around his waist, his fingers shaking as he feels the familiar weigh again. He sucks in a deep breath as it falls in place and a single beam of light from the crack above dances over the sword’s heart, the ruby sitting at its center.

He can feel it again, even though Jaime knows it is no more than his own imagination, but he can feel the beat, can almost hear the flutter of a pulse, steady, calm, even. And he finds himself breathing along, calming his mind, his beating heart. This sword reminds him, and it shall continue to remind him, of his promise to the world.

_I may not know the man I am right now, but the man who wielded it at Winterfell, without a doubt, swung it for good. For her. He held it to protect. And that… I can do, too, whoever I am._

With that, he leaves the chamber and closes the door behind him, leaving them to fade away in the light of the crack in the ceiling.

His doubts don’t matter, after all, not today at least. Because the one way to wipe out doubt is to let action follow.

And say about him what you will, Jaime Lannister never ran from a fight.

_And I won’t start now. That is my promise, my oath – and I intend to keep it._

Jaime walks back to the main hall, his footsteps perhaps not perfectly light but not as heavy as they were when he ran towards his chamber. It doesn’t take him long to spot Tyrion who is busy giving out orders. Once he catches sight of his older brother, Tyrion’s face seems to light up and Jaime can’t help but smile back.

_Thank you, little brother, for being as stubborn as I tend to be._

“There you are!” Tyrion calls out as Jaime approaches. “I was just about to send someone for you. You can’t come late to your own coronation, brother.”

“I… lost something,” Jaime says, looking down to the sword around his waist.

“Well, I hope you found it because we are about to start,” Tyrion comments.

“I think I did,” Jaime mutters.

The younger brother smiles at that. “Good.”

“I am… sorry for walking out on you,” Jaime adds, chewing on his bottom lip.

“It’s fine. Everything is fine, Jaime,” Tyrion assures him, patting the back of his hand another time.

“I hope it will be,” Jaime laughs weakly.

“I am sure, for the both of us.”

“Thank you.”

“Everything was set up as you asked. Nothing big, just a podium and the crown… and some festoons.”

Jaime makes a face at that. “I actually asked for no crown.”

“It’s a _coronation_ , you need a crown for that. It’s in the word. So stop complaining.”

“I am trying,” Jaime sighs.

He is, he really is, even if it like doesn’t sound like it to most others.

“The crown simple enough. Our good Lord Gendry’s seen to that personally,” Tyrion assures him.

“I have faith in his ability. He did fine with my hand,” Jaime ponders.

“Then have faith that it won’t be a diamond adorned monstrosity wearing too heavy on your now royal head.”

“You’ve seen it?” Jaime asks.

“Yes, it’s very fitting. You will look dashing wearing it.”

Jaime nods his head, sucks in a deep breath. Today is his coronation. He already is King. This is a celebration, his brother is right. He will have to keep reminding himself, but at he finally found something to remind him with no more than its weight, with the way it reflects the light.

“Where are the others?” Jaime asks, trying to focus on the tasks at hand.

Tyrion taps his index finger against his chin, recalling all the facts with a pensive expression. “Bran is already on the stage, he said he’d just _see_ … he’s always that cryptic, but who is even surprised now? Davos is with the City Watch outside. He’s close by the stage though. Sam will walk with you onto the podium with the crown. As we discussed, you can give your little speech upon which you insisted. Once you are finished, you get your crown from Sam. He may say some more ceremonial words as tradition demands. And then… it is done. The people cheer and we hand out wine and food to lift the mood. People will celebrate and you can finally stop worrying – and making me worry in turn.”

“And no royal feast in the Red Keep,” Jaime huffs.

He couldn’t bear sitting with lords and ladies, hearing the harps and pipes play joyful tunes while others still mourn the dead or fight death in the sickbays. Yes, this is a day to celebrate, but the lords and ladies will have to wait their turn. They all have to wait their turn.

“No feast, upon your own request. Though I will insist on having some of that wine. Never had Tarth vintage, can you imagine?”

Jaime looks at him, narrowing his eyes at the younger man.

“What? She had it delivered! Was I supposed to leave it and not hand it out?”

Jaime says nothing, just shakes his head.

“I haven’t seen Podrick or her just yet,” Tyrion adds quietly.

“I didn’t ask about…,” Jaime means to say, but his brother holds up his hands. “Your eyes say more than I need to know.”

“… Do you think she’ll come?” the older brother asks.

She gave him her vote and has since dedicated herself to the rebuilding effort, but no matter his intentions back at Winterfell, he didn’t just leave good memories with her. There must be great bitterness and pain that he put her through by leaving all of himself with her, for better or worse. So why should she come to see him be rewarded for something resting on her strong shoulders, for what was born out of his betrayal against her?

“Do you think she’d miss out on it?” Tyrion questions.

Jaime shrugs his shoulders. “I wouldn’t begrudge her if she did.”

“If that is so, you will be fine no matter whether she is there or not,” the younger man argues. “Nothing can go wrong.”

“Right.”

Because things are now in the reverse.

Because he carries her with him now, a fraction of herself, reflected in one of the finest blades the country has ever seen, living in the beating heart of a ruby, coming to life in the light that made him embrace life when he felt like giving up.

And he won’t disappoint her.

_Ever again._

Jaime will keep the oath made, the promise he is about to make to everyone, to her.

_From now on until the rest of my days._

“Alright then,” Jaime says. “Shall we begin?”

“You lead the way, my King.”

“Let’s hope I don’t stumble.”

“If you do, just get back up.”

* * *

 

Brienne looks around nervously. The entire square is filled with people shouting, laughing, talking, pushing, and pulling. That in itself doesn’t give her fright, however. What has Brienne’s heart beat much too fast is the small crowd to the far right of the square, where lords and ladies took their seats. Some look indifferent, few excited, and far too many with a sense of misgiving that has her skin crawl.

While this coronation is merely a ceremony to celebrate the decision of the Great Council already made, a tradition of old meant to carry on for more generations to come, it is the day meant to set a sign for Jaime’s reign. Yet, the faces of those people have Brienne believe that they want his reign to be neither long nor prosper.  

Davos told her that she could have a seat there as well, if she liked. After all, Brienne is a nobly born daughter. She rather stayed with Pod, Gilly, and Little Sam, though, making sure that they don’t get overrun by the crowd.

The small group found a spot near a wooden construction normally used to move rubble out of the way. It works perfectly to keep Little Sam’s head above the crowd without him having to sit on Brienne’s shoulders all the time. While she doesn’t much mind to keep him on her shoulders, she can’t deny that she cherishes being able to move her arms more freely now again.

Now the boy sits on one of the wooden beams, dangling his short legs over the edge, excitedly clapping his hands to a beat only he seems to hear inside his head.

And Brienne must say, she really rather stands here, tightly smashed together with the people of King’s Landing than stiffly sit next to lords and ladies in fine garbs who seem to have forgotten what a coronation is actually about, and who they are crowning.

_The man who saved a city from burning. Your King, whether you want him to be or not._

She lets her gaze wander around for what feels like the hundredth time. Brienne can spot some archers of the City Watch atop the buildings framing the square. There are groups of men on patrol down most of the streets leading away from the square. Davos is currently speaking with a man of the City Watch near the stage. And four men stand on either edge of the wooden podium that was put together for the sake of the coronation. However, to Brienne’s mind, that is not enough. _Not at all_. There should be far more soldiers. She can spot at least three roads she would rather have someone overlook. There are too few knights in the crowds, making sure that no one has a crossbow or another weapon on him to use against the King.

_It’s not enough. It’s not entirely safe._

Yet, Brienne also knows that this is all they have at this point, and Davos and the City Watch make do with what they have. With an army that decimated after the horrors of war, there is no other way, she is aware. That doesn’t make her heart beat any slower or keep her hands from shaking, however. The only thing that casts the tremors from her limbs is the sensation of the lion’s head of her sword against her fingertips, the familiarity of its weight against her waist.

_And for now, that will have to be enough, too._

“Is everything alright?” Gilly asks.

“Yes, yes,” Brienne assures her quickly. “Just… a bit nervous.”

The shorter woman curls her lips into a frown. “Nervous why?”

“Too few soldiers to my liking,” Brienne comments, casting a quick glance over to Podrick who shrugs his shoulders in agreement.

After all, she since took it upon herself to make the boy develop a more keen military eye, so to notice such things in the future.

“Oh, I bet it will be fine,” Gilly argues. “It’s coronation day! No bad things happen on such an occasion.”

Brienne frowns at that, turning towards her. “How are you so certain?”

Gilly shrugs her shoulders. “No single King or Queen in the history of Westeros was executed during the coronation.”

“Really?” Brienne blinks.

“At least I didn’t read about it anywhere. And when I asked Sam, he said he didn’t remember that either, and he should know, he is so smart,” Gilly ponders.

“Well, then let’s hope for once… for history to repeat itself.”

Gilly suddenly seizes her arm. “Oh, I think it begins! Sam! Look, there is your father!”

Little Sam croons happily when Samwell Tarly enters the stage, holding a pillow in hand wrapped in cloth. Music starts to rise from the stage, echoing to the furthest corners of the square.

“And he didn’t trip just once!” Gilly says, clapping her hands excitedly. “He normally always does. Good thing that I made him practice.”

“You did?” Podrick ask, to which Gilly nods her head. “I didn’t want him to look bad on that day, so of course I made him practice. It’s the only way you learn.”

“Very wise of you,” Brienne agrees.

“He _is_ clumsy,” Gilly comments.

“Well, he handled himself very gracefully just now.”

“Didn’t he?” Gilly beams at her. “I am so proud of him.”

Brienne looks at Sam for a moment, but then her eyes drift over to Brandon Stark siting in his wheelchair right next to him. A shiver runs down her spine. Because Brienne can’t shake off the feeling that he is looking at her in the crowd. Though it seems much more likely that she is just imagining things. Why would he bother with her?

_Why would anyone?_

Brienne’s attention soon shifts back to the center of the stage, however. A gasp runs through the crowd as footstep become audible. For a moment, Brienne forgets how to breathe when she sees Jaime climb the stairs and reach the stage.

True to himself, Jaime appears before the crowd not adorned in finest jewelry or brocade. He wears a fine silken doublet in dark red, but other than that, he looks no higher than any lord or lady sitting to the right, judging him with their eyes, with almost every last piece of themselves.

However, her attention soon comes to rest on the sword around his hips.

_He took it back._

The faintest of smiles brushes over Brienne’s lips, because she feared she was overstepping boundaries already by having Podrick put it in his chamber at her behest. Yet, she only finds it right. It is his, after all. And looking at him now, he looks completer to her mind, reminding Brienne of the man who stood up for himself and for the living when he came to Winterfell, the man who used that sword to defend the living, who protected her, more than once, that day, and many days before.

_A man of honor._

“He’s looking good,” Gilly comments, smirking.

“Like a King,” Brienne agrees silently.

Jaime steps closer to the front of the stage. He allows his gaze to wander over the crowd, smiling at some people at the front he seems to know. Brienne observes as he tries to find a comfortable position, nervously grasping the wrist of his right arm with his left hand to leave both in front of his body.

Then, at last, he raises his voice: “I stand before you here today as the man supposed to become King of the Six Kingdoms… I suppose the Kingslayer came a long way to finally take the title when he had any chance before but seemingly forgot in the haste of all that kingslaying.”

Chuckles rush through the crowd, easing some of the tension in the air. Brienne chews on her bottom lip. This is certainly not a regular coronation, but she dares to believe that this is how it is supposed to be.

_Speak to them and make them see. Let actions be your words, the way it’s always been._

Because that is what he is best at, she knows. That is who he truly is.

Even if some of those actions hurt her, they always spoke a clear message. And it is this language he should keep speaking to her mind. It captured her – and hopefully, it will capture the others as well.  

“In all honestly, however, I still can’t believe that this is to where it all headed,” Jaime continues. “Me as your King… I believed I’d die in this city, which sadly lost too many of its sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers to fire, hatred, ambition, and thirst for power…”

He swallows thickly, briefly letting his gaze drift over to the lords and ladies to his right. Some seem to be swayed into agreement whereas others only see what they want to see, want him to, not their King, just the Kingslayer.

_But they are all wrong. And he will make you see._

“Yet… I lived. I lived thanks to the kindness of the people far too often forgotten by history, far too often forgotten by the people who liken themselves making the rules and saying what is worth a story and what is not. I am alive because of this brave soldier down there, Tobin. As many of you are because he and his men led people away from sure death and at least offered a chance of survival in a time that had more death than life in the air. I am alive because of this good woman down there, Masha, who’s nursed a stranger back to health, shared with him her food, her drink, whatever scarce things she’s had. And even once she knew who I was… she didn’t give up on me.”

He looks at a young man and an older woman at the front whose faces Brienne can’t catch from her spot, though a part of her would like to know who they are, those people who did what she could not achieve.

“I am alive thanks to you, and all those others who have not given me away when they had any opportunity, any right, in fact… I am alive because people showed mercy with someone I still don’t know whether he’s deserving of it.”

Jaime takes a step back from the edge of the stage, starts to take up more space, claims it, keeps it. Brienne finds herself short in breath whereas he seemingly finally gathers the courage to speak louder and louder, fills his lungs with air to shout it to the world that he is here and that he isn’t going anywhere.

“And now I stand here and am supposed to take that crown,” Jaime continues, gesturing at the pillow Sam holds up. “I am supposed to declare myself King, because some of those people standing here right at this moment, and some already back home, gave me their vote. Because they believed a storyteller…”

He looks at Bran this time. The boy nods his head silently. Jaime nods back once before turning his attention back to the crowd in front of him. “And I do hope that I can make this a good story, not just for myself but for you. Because you had enough bad stories for many, many lifetimes…”

He runs his hand over his face. Brienne, even from her spot, can see the tremor in him and she can almost feel it as her own.

“This crown is the greatest honor a man or woman can be given… Yet, that is not how I view it. This crown… I want it to be the greatest _promise_ a single man, a single woman can make. This crown is not supposed to mark my greatness but my promise that I shall do anything within my powers to deserve wearing it. So that perhaps, one distant day, I am…,” he stops, pondering for a moment, but then goes on, “… somewhat great. I want to wear this crown not to mark our distance but our closeness, because this crown is my promise to you, each and every one of you, that I will do my very best, hoping it will be enough.”

His voice nearly breaks towards the end, but Jaime gathers himself by coughing lightly a few times. Because he doesn’t break that easily, Brienne knows.

“However, this is not just supposed to be my promise, I also want you to promise me something.”

Soft murmurs run through the crowd, evidently confused by what he says. Certainly, there was no king or queen before King Jaime Lannister who made his people promise him something in urn.

“I want you to promise me not your fealty but your watch. Not your blind faith but your scrutiny. For far too long kings and queens went unchecked. I saw it first-hand, I let it happen, too, like many others. I defended bad Kings and Queen, I kept their secrets, because that was my oath as a man of the Kingsguard. I don’t want that oath for me anymore, for any other King or Queen to come after me. If I turn out to be a bad King, I ask you here today to rebel, to kick down those doors and tell me and demand that I do better. And if I can’t, demand that there be a new King or Queen, a better one. I ask you to protect me from becoming a King worth slaying by taking that metal ring away from me before I can do more harm than good. Because it is you I am bound to serve and if I don’t, I should not be King. And neither should anyone else doing just so.”

His eyes travel over the crowd once more but come to rest with the lords and ladies visibly shaken by what they get to hear. Brienne hopes that they understand the message, but an uneasy feeling settles in the pit of her stomach, telling her that there is nothing Jaime could say or do that would sway them.

_There is no promise he can make them, because they have no intention of keeping it._

“And yet… I do hope that you will have patience with me. I won’t be a perfect King any time soon, I believe. I even doubt such a thing exists… because we are human. We fail more often than not. I hope you are mild with me, even when I make missteps. Not all policy, not all rule, will be perfect upon first try, I’m fairly sure. Politics are messy things and I never fancied them, I will admit. And yet… now I am bound to deal with them. So please, also have a little mercy with someone still trying to make things right. Let my council and me know when we do things wrong, but grant us time and some many second chances to fix it, to make it better. We all have to learn because the world we are meant to rebuild, we ought to make it better, too. And that takes time. That takes error. So I hope that by pledging myself to you all, I can ask for that bit of faith in me, though not bind, for that bit of patience, though not unending.”

He swallows, looking up again to find something in the crowd, though Brienne wouldn’t know what that may be. She just stares when he looks just in her direction. A voice, while faint, whispers in her ear, telling her that he is not looking at her, why would he? Why would he if Bran did not?

And yet, it seems like he looks at her. And yet, it takes her back, for just one moment in time, to Winterfell, and how he glanced at her as though nothing in the world exited beside her. And yet, she dares to hope that when his lips curl into the smallest of smiles that she has at least a small part in it.

“I truly hope I am no longer the man I once was. I hope I can become the man this country needs to heal. And hope is best sealed with a promise, an _oath_ , which I make hereby to each and every one of you,” Jaime continues, stepping to the edge of the stage.

Brienne sucks in a deep breath as sunlight cracks through the clouds and cascades over his head, painting a crown sitting in his hair when it is still wrapped in cloth under the pillow resting in Sam’s hands.

_An oath._

“I am here to serve you. I am here to protect you. And I shall do that for as long as you grant me. For as long as I draw a living breath, I shall be your humble servant… if you’ll have me,” Jaime continues. “I hope you’ll have that bit of trust in me… because I entrust to you everything I have, everything I am, and hopefully can still become.”

The crowd is perfectly still.

For a moment, an entire nation seems to hold its breath.

Jaime turns around to nod at Sam, who rewards him with a small, shy smile.

Then, the young Maester removes the cloth to reveal a golden ring of metal. Two lions chasing towards one another, meeting in the middle, where a single ruby sits at its heart.

“Kneel, Ser Jaime,” he says, and so the King does.

“Ser Jaime of House Lannister, you were chosen by the Great Council to serve this nation as King. Do you pledge yourself to this cause?” Sam asks.

“I do.”

Jaime looks up as Sam puts the crown on his head. Brienne can see how he closes his eyes for a moment, only to open them in a new reality, his reality, all their reality, whether people are ready for it or not.

“Then arise, King Jaime the Honorable, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” Sam says, before shouting as loud as he can: “Arise!”

Jaime gets back to his feet and turns to the people looking at him. Brienne can see nervousness flash across his features when the crowd remains silent.

And so she does the one thing Brienne knows not only to be tradition, but a way of sealing an oath. She bends her knee and bows her head.

“All hail Jaime the Honorable!” a man shouts from the right.

Beside her, Gilly and Podrick copy her movement.

“All hail our new King!” a woman shouts from the left.

And soon, all those standing below the stage are bowing to their new King, making their promise to him. When Brienne looks back up, she cannot deny that he is looking at her, as everyone else’s head in the crowd is still cast down. Tears stand in the King’s eyes and Brienne is right back to the moment Jaime didn’t just promise everything to her but gave it to her.

_Arise, Brienne of Tarth._

And so she does, only looking at him, only seeing him, standing in the light.

 _That is what a King should look like_ , Brienne thinks to herself, and the crowd seems to agree as shouts continue to ring to the furthest corners of the city who just got its new King.

“Long may he reign!”

“Long may he reign!”

“Long may he reign!”

Brienne shouts with them as loud as she can, she shouts for the future now pronounced, for every lord and lady to hear, to accept, whether they want to or not, whether they are ready to commit to their promise or not.

Because she promised, she promises now again, and every day again henceforth.

So he may arise every day anew.

_My King. My…_

“Are you alright, Brienne?”

She whips her head around to Gilly, who is looking at her with concern.

“What?” Brienne mutters.

“Your eyes.”

Brienne brushes her hand over her left eye, feeling wetness against her skin. _Tears_. She hurriedly wipes them away before smiling at Gilly the best she can. “Perfectly fine, thank you. I just got something in my eye.”

Because she does, and it is the future.

It is him leading the way there.

It is light.

As the city rises into an uproar of shouts of excitement, the bells ring to pronounce, for once, a new beginning.

And through the clouds, light rains down on them all.


	8. Little Big Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime tries to find his way not just around the city but also in life. He knows there is a conversation long overdue, which is why he seeks out Brienne at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for all those lovely comments and kudos, y'all are making me so happy. ♥♥♥
> 
> Sorry that this update took so long, but life was all kinds of crazy the past few weeks (though in a good way for once, yay!). This chapter was *tough* because we are setting up a lot of conflict and misunderstanding going forward because I am a thirsty hoe for drama and non-striaghtforward solutions. I guess you already know that about me, which is why I all the more appreciate y'all staying around for the drama. 
> 
> Either way, I hope you are going to enjoy the chapter. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

The King wrinkles his nose as he approaches a square of the city he must admit he never went to before. However, that was the direction Jaime was given, so he goes there despite the odd smells lying thick in the air, the unfamiliarity of the terrain. This is his city now, after all, which means he has to get to know every corner, every street, has to walk it over and over until the dust is cleared.

_So I might just as well start here and now._

As Jaime continues his way down the streets, the odor becomes stronger and stronger, and as it does, voices rise above the broken-down houses and pieces of rubble lying in the streets. They sound like a beat, the heart of the city. Jaime allows himself to be carried by those sensations curiously soothing his mind, reassuring him, that yes, tomorrows keep pouring into a city still thickly covered in ash.

He stops by the end of a small alleyway where most of the noise comes from, all the surer that he is headed the right direction. Jaime can see people sitting on turned-around wooden boxes and barrels, boulders and parts of collapsed walls people covered with blankets for some kind of comfort. Most are sitting in circles, chatting busily while they sip broth from wooden bowls or munch pieces of sourdough bread.

 _I seem to be where I am meant to be, right at the heart of King’s Landing_ , Jaime thinks to himself as he keeps walking towards the end of the alley. He finds himself confirmed when he spots Podrick sitting with a bunch of children. The lad is busy handing out chunks of bread to them, though the task proves rather difficult as the children readily cling on to his arms to pull him down to sit with them, chanting “story time!” over and over.

Jaime grows acutely aware of his own presence when he can feel eyes following him when not long ago, they wouldn’t even recognize the shape of his face. From the corner of his eye, he can see people left and right scrambling to their feet, leaving their broths and breads abandoned as they bow their heads or even attempt to get down on one knee for him. He coughs lightly, feeling heat rise to his cheeks.

“Please, no bowing. I am here because of private affairs. See? No crown. So, uhm… Do go on and just… ignore me, thank you,” Jaime says with an awkward smile, waving around with his left hand awkwardly. The people study him with irritation for a moment longer, but then do as he says and continue eating, thankfully returning to live their lives amongst the rubble as they normally would.

Pod gets to his feet a little too hasty, nearly toppling over as the children block most of the ways he can step at, still waiting for him to do as they demanded.

“Ser Jai… I mean Your Grace, it’s good to see,” the young man says, running his freed hand over the back of his head, leaving a streak of flour in his dark hair.

“It’s good to see you, too, Pod,” Jaime answers, offering a gentle smile. “I see you make yourself busy?”

“I like that kind of busy,” Podrick replies, grinning back at the children gathered by his feet, nudging him to finally pay more attention to them again.

“I imagine,” Jaime chuckles softly, winking at the children, some of whom he recognizes as having ogled at him through the opened windows of Masha’s house to get a good look at “the man with the magic map.” They smile at him with a kind of brightness only a child’s smile can achieve, thankfully easier to forget the etiquette Jaime would much like to get rid of altogether. Because those smiles are much more worth than a fancy crown could ever be.

“Can I help you with anything, Your Grace?” Pod asks, looking at him with a small frown forming on his lips. Jaime whips his head back to the lad, flashing a brief, nervous smile at him in turn. “In fact you may, Pod. Do you, by any chance, know where I can find…?”

“ _She’s_ handing out food over there with Gilly and the others,” Pod interrupts him, and Jaime is glad for it, because he doesn’t like to discuss private affairs with that big an audience.

The King nods his head. “Thank you.”

“At your service, Your Grace.”

“And you keep him busy for me, won’t you?” Jaime asks the children who readily clutch at Podrick’s legs for emphasis. “That’s what I want to see.”

He claps Pod on the shoulder as he walks past him, only to hear a small yelp from Podrick as the children finally manage to make him sit down and continue their small chant to satisfy their hunger for stories.

 _And we need good stories_ , Jaime thinks to himself. _Enough tragic tales have been told already. We should have some more with happy endings for future generations to come._

He continues the rest of the narrow path leading up to a small, makeshift tent from which far more pleasant scents are blown his way. Women and men are handing out wooden bowls of broth and pieces of bread, while also offering smiles and kind words to those in need of them.

It is this kind of solidarity Jaime already got a feeling of familiarity for back when he was hidden away at Masha’s house. He could watch from the window as people brought food to the elders who could not get anything for themselves. He heard older children start playing with the crying smaller ones who missed their family after their loved ones were ripped away from them by red and green fire. He could listen to men setting to the task to repair houses where they could, with the little they had. He could hear women sit together and sing to soothe children without mothers or say prayers for those who would never return.

Because in times of crisis, people come together.

In times of crisis, you don’t leave each other alone.

_You stay… or at the very least you should._

And as it seems, it is from such tragedy that the goodness of man can come back to light, when Jaime was left questioning it for the better part of his life, having served far too many bad rulers and working next to or against bad lords and ladies for far too long.

It doesn’t take Jaime long to spot the person he is looking for under the tent. She is tearing up hard bread to give over to the people coming for food. The task looks almost effortless when she does it, though Jaime can imagine that most others would have their arms burning with pain from tearing up those loafs of hard bread.

_Not that this is a surprise. She is stronger than most. Stronger than me…_

What _does_ take him long is to get used to the sight of Brienne without armor again. Ever since it become clear that she would remain in the city, he mostly caught no more than glimpses of her, all the more caught up in his new duties as future King. Her guard was always up higher than any wall could ever reach, and the armor he once gave to her for protection served just that purpose. However, now, of that he is sure, it is also to shield herself from the man who once gave it to her.

_Because I tore it down and left her vulnerable to the cuts and blows I handed to her the night I rode away from Winterfell._

Yet, seeing her now in a lighter tunic more fitting the warm weather, it is both a shock and a relief at the same time. Because that means Brienne finds herself at least comfortable enough around those people not to wear the heavy weight of that armor daily. Nonetheless, it shocks him to see her like this, because it brings back memories of when that used to be normal, if only for a while, if only just between the two of them. When both would get ready for yet another day at Winterfell, believing it would last much longer than it did. When he would help her with the laces and she would let him, even though Jaime was nearly useless at the task.

It was normal, so very natural, that it should have stayed that way, but so many things did not go as he would have wanted, far too many were corrupted, making even something that small, something that wonderfully simplistic, make his throat tighten, leaving him with almost no air to breathe.

Jaime inhales deeply before covering the last bit of distance to step underneath the tent providing shade.

“Oh, good day to you, Your Grace!” Gilly greets him with her typical warm smile. Jaime didn’t get to know her that well yet, but he saw her with Sam and it assured him that Gilly is one sweet girl who’s seen enough bad for two lives and yet finds it in herself to smile and radiate a kind of happiness so many have lost along the way.

“Good day to you, too. I hope you are taking it easy, in that kind of weather,” Jaime says with a soft grin, nodding at her swelling belly.

“She makes sure of it,” Gilly laughs, nodding at Brienne beside her, who’s kept her head levelled at all times, seemingly having hoped that Jaime would not see her.

_Though you should know better than that by now, shouldn’t you?_

When he can feel her big blue eyes on him as she lifts her gaze, Jaime stiffens, offering a smile that likely is no more than an odd grimace.

“Your Grace.”

“Lady Brienne.”

She licks her lips. “What brings you here?”

“ _You_ did, in a way… Is it possible to have a private moment with you, my lady? Or don’t you have the time? I mean, if you don’t, then… I can also…”

Jaime fights any urge not to smack himself with his new metal hand, though thankfully, Brienne sets into action before he can. She puts down the bread, brushing her hands together to get rid of the flour sticking to her pale skin. “If the King so desires, I will make time for him.”

“I am not asking as your King,” Jaime argues, frightened by the prospect of an even greater distance spreading between them already due to the title he now bears. And all that after they were so close, so very close.

“… I may not answer otherwise, I’m afraid.” She doesn’t look at him, and Jaime can hear a fight raging within her, trying to keep herself mild and composed, even though something darker, something fueled by anger and sadness, is boiling underneath the surface of her pale skin.

Jaime sighs. “Fine, then I kindly request a private moment with you, _as your King_.”

She nods her head slowly, briefly muttering something to Gilly before rounding the table to come closer to him, though always mindful to keep a distance that wasn’t there for about a month but only just a month, even though it should have lasted a lifetime, if not more.

“… Shall we walk a bit?” Jaime asks, gesturing ahead.

“You lead the way, Your Grace.”

Jaime smiles tensely, nodding his head, before he starts to walk away from the busy alley, leaving the smell, the noises, and lastly the people behind. They carry on in silence as they walk down pebbled paths that continue to be cleared day in, day out, though rubble and stones still are in the way at every turn.

 _How fitting_ , Jaime thinks to himself.

“To where are we headed?” Brienne asks stiffly, barely moving her lips apart, eyes focused on the alley stubbornly much.

“Just a little further down the path is a place where we it is quiet enough to have… a more private conversation, as I’d imagine you’d prefer.”

Brienne nods her head slowly and follows him until they reach a part of the former gardens of the Red Keep that was already cleared up so that new houses can be built here little time from now.

“They had to get a lot of rubble out of the way, but thankfully, all are working very hard to bring the city underneath back to light,” Jaime says, not sure why he even addresses the issue. This is not what he came here to talk to her about.

Though perhaps it’s simply far too comfortable to talk about that which was already achieved instead of what was done wrong, and what lies in distant, unclear futures.

“It is impressive what the people get done here together,” Brienne agrees softly.

“It is indeed. Please,” Jaime says, gesturing her to go ahead to large stone that remained, making for a good place to sit. At least Jaime found it to be, when he needs a break from the Red Keep, from this new strange life he doesn’t yet know how to live.

Brienne studies him for a long moment, but then sits down on the white stone, kneading her knuckles nervously. Jaime sits down as well, mindful to keep a distance as he can’t imagine she’d want him any closer.

“Do you come here often?” she asks, nearly whispers.

“Sometimes. It’s nicely quiet.”

“Very much so,” Brienne confirms softly. “And a nice breeze.”

“Yes.”

For a moment, both listen to the winds blows over the empty space, but then something changes in Brienne’s posture. She leans forward and her features tighten, as though she was preparing for a fight. “So… what does the King desire to speak of, now that we are in private?”

“Can we… I want to speak to you as Jaime, is that alright?”

“It will have to be,” she whispers.

“If you can’t… we can also go back, I mean…,” Jaime offers, but she shakes her head all of a sudden, screwing her eyes shut. Jaime frowns as she curses under her breath. And while he can’t make out what she says, he can almost feel the frustration seeping out of her.

“No… no, it’s… I am sorry. It was a long day and the weather still tends to get to me at times… I didn’t mean to…,” Brienne means to say, but Jaime cuts her off, “Please, don’t apologize.”

He knows who owes more than one apology, who owes more debts than any Lannister could ever repay, and it is by no means the woman beside him.

“I just don’t want to act that way. That is unworthy of me,” Brienne insists.

“You have any reason to act that way… far worse, in fact, if you asked me…,” Jaime argues. Because he still expects her to yell at him, no small part of him even wants her to, wants her to lash out the way she used to back on their shared journey to King’s Landing, when they would curse each other’s name, made their frustration known rather than bottling them up and stashing them away. He wants her to curse him now, he really does.

“But I don’t want to, so accept my apology for it, please.”

He sighs. “I do.”

“Thank you,” she mutters. “So, what do you want to talk to me about?”

“I think… I think another round of gratitude is in order. For all the deliveries that came from Tarth and… and for the services you do around the city and…,” he stammers, looking down himself. “And the sword… I believe?”

“I wasn’t the one to put it there, I asked Pod for it… It was yours anyway. And a man once laughed at me at how ridiculous he found it when people carried two. I have one, that’s enough… but I don’t believe that this is the reason why you’d mean to speak to me in private, now is it?” Brienne asks, her voices softer than Jaime knows himself to be deserving of.

_Curse me, please._

“It’s not, no…,” Jaime mutters.

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “Well?”

“ _Well_ … I am trying to change topic, obviously… but… I shouldn’t. I… Some time has passed since… since… all of this went down, quite literally so… I… I have been berating myself how to talk to you, what to say to you. And I failed miserably each time… and still seem to be now…”

Jaime spent far too many hours pacing along the edges of his chamber, pondering his words, trying to figure out what to say to her to pay with his words as much as he can, but in the end, he always stumbled over those words, stumbled over himself and his inability to keep close what used to be right next to him.

“So will that prevent you from speaking at this point of time?” Brienne asks.

He chuckles softly. “I’m afraid not.”

“I already reckoned you’d say that.”

“You know me well.”

“… About that I am no longer that sure,” she whispers faintly, looking ahead.

“There are some things I never talked to you about, many things I left unsaid.”

“That I know. The silence was near deafening.”

Jaime bows his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you mean to lift that silence, then?” Brienne asks.

“I’d like to try, if you let me.”

“… What didn’t you tell me that you are willing to share now but couldn’t back then?” she asks.

Jaime sucks in a deep breath. “The reason why I left…”

“I know why.”

“Do you?”

“I had a lot of time to think it through,” Brienne answers. “More time than I should have had.”

“I tend to think that, at the very least, you deserve to know what was going through my mind when I… when I made that choice. Will you hear it?”

“Please.”

“I… I truthfully thought that this would be my end,” Jaime begins. Though it seems strange to him, to start with his ending, though then again, it was the beginning of something else, of a person he yet has to accept as his own self.

“I had a notion when I told you that you don’t have to go there and die with her… and you went anyway,” Brienne answers with a sad smile that holds no ounce of joy.

“No, it’s… I mean… I was sure I would die here in King’s Landing. I was sure that I was riding to my death. I was sure that wherever I turned, death followed me down every path I could have taken. I was certain that there was danger looming behind every corner, a great darkness about to consume me and everything I carried with me. And it just wouldn’t end until I did.”

Jaime was so lost in that maze that he saw no other way out but to break it, tear it all down to the ground, even if that meant he collapsed alongside with it. If only so that the one streak of light in his life could continue to break through the cracks of the great darkness that kept haunting him well after the Long Night ended, because it resided inside him all along, travelled with him every step of the way, and there was nothing Jaime could do, or so it seemed back then, to preserve that light, to keep that candle lit.

“How did you come to that conclusion?” Brienne asks.

“Because… because of something Brandon Stark told me, when I first came to Winterfell to fight for the living alongside you.”

She frowns. “What did he say?”

“I went to talk to him about what I had done to him… I came to apologize… as I came to apologize for so many things throughout my life. Curiously so, he didn’t seem to mind much. He doesn’t mind much of anything, as far as I am concerned…”

“What did he say?” Brienne asks again.

“I asked him why he didn’t give me away during the trial… when you stood up for me… I didn’t understand why he’d protect this secret. Why he’d protect me.”

“Did he give you an answer?”

“Another question, in fact. He said that it wouldn’t have made sense to have me killed before the battle and when I wanted to know what he thought would happen once the war was over… he asked me how I knew there would be a time after the battle,” Jaime recounts, a shiver running through him at the memory.

Because that was when darkness started to spread all around him, no matter how desperate he was clutch on to the beam of light he caught over and over again, observing the young soldiers on freshly fallen snow, awaiting instructions, awaiting a direction ahead and through the darkness yet to come upon them all.

“And how did that inspire you to ride South, then?” Brienne asks.

“I thought I’d die in that battle, for an honorable cause at least. At every step I took, I thought I’d die on that battlefield,” Jaime says, which is the truth. Part of the reason why he could fight as fearless as he did was that he had everything to gain and nothing to lose. He had her to protect and his life to give, and if he had left it only for her to go on breathing, for her to open her blue eyes to the next day, Jaime knows he would have died with content.

“You didn’t, though,” she mutters.

“No, I didn’t… We both survived. We both survived to tell a story neither one of us believed we’d be able to tell… And then there was a feast. We celebrated life… and I forgot, for a time, for that _one_ time… that I was convinced that there was no future for me.”

He embraced it, kissed it, and didn’t want to let go ever again, but as fires cracked in the hearth and Jaime felt far too comfortable in his own skin right next to hers, it came to him, looming behind the fires, dancing, taunting, whispering about a future he wanted to have but shouldn’t claim as his.

“But then… then I was called back by my past and I could no longer ignore it, as much as I wanted to,” Jaime continues, swallowing thickly.

She nods her head. “The past you rode South for.”

“I realized that Bran didn’t speak of world’s end when he told me this. He spoke of my own. That it was about my own darkness ready to take me. My past catching up to me. My end.”

“And you readily rode towards it,” Brienne says, licking her lips, her voice as tight, as though she had to force syllables weighing a ton out of her ribcage.  

“I never run away from a fight.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I just hoped that I could make my end worth something… anything,” Jaime goes on. “I thought that maybe I could save a life, perhaps a few more… and at the very least, protect that one I had to leave behind.”

He looks at her. Brienne studies him with irritation edging on awareness, though she doesn’t seem to know what to do with his words, his poorly retold account of the events she only ever got to know from her side, her perspective.

“I left because I felt an obligation to… to protect, no matter the costs, no matter the sacrifice, no matter the impending death. Cersei surrendering the Iron Throne would have guaranteed not just the safety of the city but also… _your_ safety, you see. Or at the very least, you staying behind would have prevented you from falling victim to my darkness,” Jaime continues.

She gapes at him, not quite believing what she hears. “ _My_ safety? How was that ever of concern?”

“Cersei sent Bronn after Tyrion and me. She paid him to have us both killed for the betrayal… for having the audacity to walk away from her… He was also tasked to take out some Stark generals, among whom you were. And… I couldn’t bear the thought that you… because of me… I…”

Saying that already forces pain to spread in his ribs that burns even hotter than Euron Greyjoy’s blade ever could. Thinking it is even worse, because Jaime spent far too many nights painting those images in the darkest colors, of her dying in his arms, of her dying in some inn outside Winterfell while he talked to generals, only to get the news from Podrick, teary-eyed, far too late.

Because it takes so little to destroy a life, and so much to keep it.

“Something you made no mention of to me back at Winterfell,” Brienne says slowly, unable to keep an edge of accusation out of her voice despite her efforts.

“Because I did not want you to get into any more danger than you’d already been in thanks to me,” Jaime explains.

Brienne looks up, letting out a shaky breath. “I fought the living dead and you believed I needed protection from Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?”

“I am sure you’d beat him in a square fight, but he knows how to fight dirty, and he will. Bronn may have gone through you to get to me, do you understand?” Jaime insists. “You are strong without a doubt, Brienne, you are one of the most able knights I ever got to know, but it only takes one moment, one crossbow, one bolt, and all could have been over.”

His world would have ended, that’s for sure. Because there was no world without her, there wouldn’t ever be. Then the alternative of a world without him seemed much more bearable, like the only way to prevent that future from unfolding.

“And not telling me ensured my safety how exactly, to your mind?” Brienne wants to know.

“Because I know you, better than most. And you would have gotten yourself into trouble, you would have thrown yourself right at it, had you known. You would have insisted to come South with me, had you known about Bronn, had you know about Brandon Stark and what he told me. And even if not, you would have insisted on taking on that bloody sellsword on your own.”

“I did anyway!” Brienne blurts out saying, which leaves Jaime gaping at her with wide eyes. “What?!”

“Tyrion talked to Podrick before he left to King’s Landing to bid him farewell… you don’t believe the lad can keep a secret from me for long, do you?” Brienne huffs, looking at him.

“So you knew…,” Jaime mutters breathlessly, the images of her dying suddenly just as fresh on his mind. She could have died there, her world, no his world with her within it, could have ended right there, right now, and he wouldn’t have known because he rode South to take himself out of that game.

“Only after you’d left… only after it was already too late,” Brienne admits, letting her head hang low.

“… What did you do?”

“I paid him a visit.”

“A visit?” Jaime repeats.

“Yes, a visit,” she confirms. “We had a conversation and he agreed to my terms.”

Jaime frowns at her, still not quite believing what he hears. “Which were?”

“That I don’t kill him. Apparently, he values his life a lot, more than anyone’s, I’d imagine,” Brienne snorts, making her discontent no secret.

“Are you mad?” Jaime exclaims, unable to hold it back for just a second longer.

“You sincerely ask that after what _you_ did here?” she retorts. “You nearly got killed by an entire castle collapsing on you, so let’s not pretend.”

“You could have gotten yourself killed!” he insists.

“You nearly did!”

Jaime runs his left hand over his face to ease some of the tension out of it. What a failure he is, even at that he nearly failed. She could have gotten herself killed because of him. And that even though that inspired him to go South in the first place.

_I can’t seem to do anything right – and yet, people voted for me to be King. Perhaps the world is even madder than I tend to be at times._

“Bronn was fool enough to spend most of his time in the North at the alehouses around towns outside of Winterfell. He was an easy target, cocksure that there was no way he’d lose that wager,” Brienne recounts. “All it took was one distraction, which was to have Pod take a drink with him for old time’s sake. And then it was really just grabbing him from behind and seeing the color drain from his face.”

“Seven Hells.” Jaime nearly wheezes as he leans forward to let out a long breath he was holding for far too long already. She could have been dead, and he wouldn’t have known, he wouldn’t have been there to protect her from it. His past would have followed her into her future, it may very well have destroyed it.

_And all that, yet again, because of me. Just where does it finally end?_

“I told Bronn that I’d let him live but warned him that if he continued to go after either one of you or anyone else for that matter, I’d find him again. I daresay he believed me,” Brienne continues coolly. “He left Winterfell that same night.”

“Maybe we should have done that in the first place,” Jaime huffs, still not believing what he hears, and still all the more impressed by that woman who finds paths when he finds himself walking circles.

“He had you at the point of a crossbow. There was nothing much you could have done,” Brienne argues. “Either way, he understood the terms… after a broken nose and perhaps a cracked rib or two.”

“Almost sad that I didn’t get to see that,” Jaime huffs, then rolls his eyes. “So… Bronn won’t pester about getting Highgarden, how fortunate.”  

Brienne shakes her head. “Who in his right mind would give him that anyway? The man does not know how to run a castle, let alone a whole region, even less so one that is as vital as the Reach.”

“Same thought I had, but Tyrion evidently had a vested interest to get our heads out of the sling. Then you say some things you normally wouldn’t,” Jaime points out. He himself was more than frustrated with Tyrion’s suggestion, handing castles, and more importantly the people living within, around like toys. However, he saw the necessity in the end.

_When you believe you die, you do many things you think you wouldn’t do._

Jaime himself proved that not just to himself but also to her when he rode away from Winterfell without looking back, even though every part of himself, every part of herself, told him to stay.

_Stay, stay with me. Please._

Jaime shudders, the memories of that expression, that desperation, and the knowledge that he rode away despite it, didn’t turn back around just once, far too much for him. Because she begged him for that one thing, and he didn’t give it to her. She asked that one thing of him, and he turned his back on her.  

“Well, there is no sling anymore,” Brienne sighs.

“Right, apparently he is back at Stokeworth,” Jaime recounts.

She shrugs, not at all surprised by it. “I gave him that advice when Pod and I saw to it that he took off from Winterfell.”

“You did?” he blinks at her.

“The engagement between Lollys Stokeworth and Ser Wyllis Bracken was seemingly off for a rough start,” Brienne tells him, staring off into the distance.

“How would you know?” He frowns.

“My father is a lord. Lords and ladies talk. One raven is all it took to know that this arranged marriage laid in ruins before it ever truly began,” Brienne lets him know.

Jaime snorts at that. “I never was quite the matchmaker.”

“You don’t say.”

“Why did you give him that perspective, though?”

“A man who has something to look forward to, a man who has something he wants to see safeguarded has less incentive to run around risking it by hunting a few men down he was tasked to kill,” Brienne says simply. “I gave him the prospect of another future, and he took the chance. It seemed to work… for once.”

“Well, I suppose I am to thank you… yet again.” He grimaces.

Truly, how would he ever repay her, even in a thousand lifetimes? How could he give back all that she’s given him, when even his own life is not enough to ensure the bare minimum, that she may live on, that she may continue to pursue her life, live it, and watch futures of her own making coming to bloom once Spring comes after the Long Night. 

“I suppose it shows that you were an idiot… _Your Grace_ ,” Brienne can’t help but say.

Jaime shakes his head with a smirk. “I am.”

He was a fool to believe that this was enough, that his everything was enough for her, to ensure her safety, and make sure that a future would exist for her to live in peacefully, after a woman of war lived it far too long to his liking, well aware of the softness and vulnerability residing underneath that armor.

“So truly, that is the one reason why you didn’t talk to me about it? Bronn of the Blackwater?” Brienne wants to know.

Jaime shakes his head. “It wasn’t about Bronn.”

“Then about what was it if not this? You just said…,” she means to say, but the cuts her off to go on to explain, “I know what I said! What I mean is that my fear didn’t come from Bronn alone, it came from people _like_ Bronn, about what could have happened to you, had I let you ride South with me, as I am sure you would have done, had I…”

He stops himself, takes a deep breath, and then goes on, “My sister was a hateful woman. She wouldn’t have had any trouble to send mercenaries to Tarth’s shores, to the North, to take on you and anything and anyone you ever cared or loved. She would have had your father killed in the blink of an eye. She would have sent for Sansa. She would have killed many innocent people just because she found herself under attack, even when she was the one attacking. Because that is what she did, who she was. And I could not bear the thought that you’d have to suffer that because… because of me.”

“You should know that I don’t need that sort of protection,” Brienne argues.

“And you should know that knowing that couldn’t ever stop me from trying nonetheless,” Jaime argues.

She looks aside, puckering her lips. Jaime knows Brienne hates to admit to weakness, hates to let others protect her when she swore her entire life to just that cause. Jaime found that same feeling in himself for most of his life, so he knows that reflection in her blue eyes when he sees it. He sees himself right there, and more than anything, he’d want her to know that she doesn’t just need protection but that it is alright to let yourself be protected even when you know how to protect yourself.

But then again, he bites his tongue just thinking it, because who is he to say that after he was the one to tear down defenses Brienne kept well-guarded for the better part of her life?

“I could have died a couple of times in the battle against the living dead, to protect you,” Jaime carries on, his eyes stinging.

“I know,” she whispers faintly.

“Do you sincerely think I’d let my past… myself… destroy that life I was willing to give my own for?” he adds.

She shakes her head. “No.”

Because yes, both know Jaime would have stopped at nothing to ensure her safety. Not after all they went through, not after all those times he was willing to leave his life so hers may continue.

“I didn’t tell you because I was scared you’d follow me, had you known. Because you have a tendency to save people even when they are… a lost cause. I should know that better than anyone because I am one of those lucky bastards,” Jaime says with a sad smile.

He was far luckier than he should have been, after all he’s done, Jaime knows this. He is even luckier now than he believes himself to be deserving of. Because they are both here. Against all odds, despite his poor planning and matchmaking, she is here, and the hateful woman in King’s Landing didn’t get to her first because death came to her before it could reach the honorable woman at Winterfell.

And that is nothing Jaime accounts to a debt the Gods, the universe, owed to him for his good deeds, quite on the contrary, in fact, leaving him all the more wondering just what punishment the Gods have chosen for him after rewarding him with so much more than he ever thought to be deserving of.

“You’re not a lost cause. And I’d rather have you stop saying that,” Brienne snaps, her voice coming out much more forceful than Jaime would have thought.

“Why?” He frowns.

“Because I did not give my vote for a lost cause as our King,” Brienne says sternly. “My vote was not for nothing. It can’t be.”

“I… I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant,” Jaime assures her quickly. “Look, you… you have any reason to be mad at me because of… because of how I left and for not telling you about those things and…”

“Oh, I am angry, furious, in fact,” she tells him.

“As I said, you have any reason to be. You have any reason to hate me for, for hurting you like that, for leaving you without giving you a proper reason and…,” Jaime mutters, but then the words leave him, fail him all over again.

“No, I am not angry with you for… for leaving,” she then says, which leaves Jaime all the more baffled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am angry with you because you just confirmed my suspicion that you didn’t trust me,” Brienne then says, and now Jaime honestly feels like he was punched in the gut.

“… What?” Jaime gapes at her, wondering whether his ears are still ringing. Because he can’t believe what he just heard, that must have been a strange gust of the wind whispering to him.

“That you left, it didn’t make me angry. It doesn’t now.”

He looks at her. “Right.”

“It doesn’t!” Brienne insists. “Even if I… don’t always succeed in curbing my frustration. You leaving… it made me… _sad_ … and hurt, I will admit, but… I am not angry because of it. I understand that you had to go South. I do so, knowing more than I did back when you rode away that night. In the end, it proved more than necessary that you were here at that point of time. It saved many innocent lives, and may have saved even some that were… not that innocent. So, _this_ … I understand. And as much as… as it may have pained me personally… I got it, after some time. And I couldn’t judge you for it. I couldn’t possibly hate you for it, ever.”

Jaime looks at her, not quite believing what he hears. Because he didn’t just believe, didn’t just want her to curse him and his name, each and every one of his titles. Jaime thought that there was no way Brienne would understand it, would even find it in herself to show him mildness he knows he is undeserving of after he took so much away from her.

Yet, here they are.

And the world, once more, makes no sense to him.

“So no, I am not angry with you for leaving, I am furious with you for not trusting me. You didn’t trust me enough to tell me, you didn’t trust me to help you. With Bronn. With the map. With King’s Landing,” Brienne tells him, leaning her head to the side. “And that even though you knighted me, even though you got of me the promise that I’d defend the Seven Kingdoms. You said you trusted me, but when it mattered, you did not. And that even though… even though I thought I’d have at least that bit of you.”

She can’t look at him, the twitch in her left eye telling him that there is a tear on the verge of falling, and that is yet another blow to his already battered body. While Jaime is aware that he deserves a great many more blows than he received from her, it doesn’t cease to take him aback just how much her pain hurts him in turn.

“That’s not… that’s not at all what it was. Brienne, I…,” Jaime stammers, completely at a loss, because that truly was the one thing he never even gave any serious thought. He expected her to be angry with him for leaving her like that, for leaving her vulnerable after she opened up to him, after she dared to expose to him what she never showed to anyone else. He expected her to curse him. He expected her to demand answers on how he could go to King’s Landing, could go make one last attempt to save Cersei after all that was between them, after all she’s done.

 _But a lack of trust?_ Jaime never thought that would be an issue. Yet, seeing her now, fighting back tears she is too stubborn to allow to fall to the ground, to come into this world, it tells him that, yes, she is perfectly sincere. He can feel that pain stabbing in his own chest, and more than anything he’d mean to soothe it out of her. Yet, it is no comfort he can provide her with anymore, the same way he’d eased her tears that night and some other nights, when insecurity won and he battled back to make her look at him and see him so she may see herself in the reflection of his eyes, so she may see what he saw in her when she couldn’t see it in herself.

However, that seems to be part of his wicked destiny, to leave rubble and shards of broken glass behind, threatening even for those he is so desperate to keep out of harm’s way to catch themselves on those sharp edges.

“How else was it, hm? You didn’t trust me to tell me,” Brienne argues.

“I feared you’d ride South with me,” Jaime repeats.

_I thought you’d die by my side, and that’s what I couldn’t bear. Don’t you hear? Don’t you see?_

“And that means you didn’t trust me to be of any use in the South.”

“I thought I was riding to my death.”

“And you didn’t trust me to prevent that from happening.”

“I thought I was beyond saving, Brienne.”

“You didn’t trust me with your life.”

“I entrusted you my life back on the battlefield…,” he tries to say, but she won’t let him. “But not from the one battle you didn’t run away from.”

Jaime pinches the bridge of his nose with a grunt. How did they get here? He never believed that to have been the issue. He never thought he’d have to explain that, which leaves him, once more, without devices, without any kind of help or preparation, reducing him to a mumbling mess who can’t seem to put into words what she so desperately needs to hear.

_What a King he was… what a King I am…_

“You didn’t trust me and… that makes me angry. Because I was sure I’d have that, no matter what happened thereafter. No matter what happened between us. But I didn’t. In the end… I had nothing.” She bows her head.

Brienne looks down, blinking repeatedly to keep tears out of her eyes. And Jaime feels any urge to brush his thumb against her cheek to let her know that she doesn’t have to hold back her tears, not in front of him, but he knows he is not entitled to that anymore. He gave that away when he left her with just those tears in her eyes back at Winterfell, and didn’t brush them away, didn’t give her the comfort she would have needed and instead left her standing in the cold, bemoaning the loss of a man who likely never deserved her tears in the first place.

“Cersei, King’s Landing, those were my responsibilities, my burdens, and I didn’t want you to have to carry them just because… just because…,” Jaime stammers.

“Just because of that small thing we had?” she proposes, which makes Jaime stare at her.

_No! No! No! No! No!_

How can all of this go so wrong when he spent far too long practicing, pondering his words? How is everything so misunderstood, so twisted, that he can’t make out the shape of them anymore when he used to be able to paint it with his fingers in the dark of the night? Just what happened?  

“What? No, that’s not at all what I meant. _Not at all._ You matter to me more than… more than words can say, I am… I mean… I was _scared_ , Brienne. Terrified! I just wanted to protect… because there is nothing more hateful than failing to protect the ones you love, right?” He looks at her, his eyes near pleading for her to understand that much, to believe him at least that bit.

“Right. And you took that away from me,” she whispers.

“Because I was trying to keep you safe,” Jaime insists. “I thought I was a dead man walking to his crypt, a man with no prospect of a future, Brienne.”

And his grave should not become hers. Then he’d rather have died a thousand times over in the rubble of the city, with or without his sister there.

“And now you are King with any prospect of a future… no thanks to me,” Brienne points out, her voice faint, barely carrying over the whisper of the wind dancing past them.

“That’s not true,” Jaime argues. “And please, could you stop repeating that this is my title now? This is all mad enough as it is.”

“But that is what you are now. And that is… who you used to be. The question is if you are still that man, isn’t it? You once said you are no longer the man you once were… so who are you now?” she asks.

“Just Jaime.”

“Whoever that is.”

“I’m still trying to figure it out myself.”

“I imagine…,” Brienne sighs. “So yes, I am angry with you for not trusting me, but foremost… I am mad at you for being right.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jaime questions, at this point starting to wonder if he misunderstood the entire world or if the world just decided to leave him speaking in a tongue only he understood but no one else. Because how is it that Brienne comes to all of those conclusions when that is no single one he would have drawn?

“You lived, no thanks to me,” she answers. “I wasn’t there. I didn’t ride South.”

“And I am glad for it.”

“But I am not!” Brienne retorts, shaking her head with a pained expression. “Because it means you had any right not to trust me. When it mattered, I wasn’t there. When it mattered, I didn’t fight.”

“What mattered was that you were safe,” Jaime argues.

That was all that mattered, is all that matters now, to him at least, but the same does not seem to apply to Brienne. And there is something telling Jaime that he likely should have anticipated that much. Brienne always protects people, even those undeserving of it, even the likes of him, so not to have protected, it must tear at her in ways Jaime didn’t even think about until she said it, until she brought that reality in this new, strange world he still has trouble finding his way around within.

“I don’t say that I could have changed the outcomes of the events a great deal, but… I… I did nothing. Absolutely nothing. Whereas you… you were here. You did something. Something outstanding. You drew your map and tried to save lives wherever you could. And you did – but I didn’t. I wasn’t there. And that makes me angry with you for being right about me. That makes me angry with myself for proving you right in something I’d want you to be wrong about.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is a matter of fact. I was not there. You were here. I was not. I did not save a life here in King’s Landing. Not a single one. Not even the one of the man I fought side by side with back at Winterfell.”

“Because I hoped you wouldn’t…,” he means to say, but she interrupts him before Jaime can go on, “It doesn’t matter what you hoped! What matters is that… that I didn’t when I normally would have. When I should have. Something changed about me, and not for the better. Because another version of myself, the one I thought I always was, she would have ridden South. She would have bolted right up to her chamber to put on breeches and a coat and ride after you. But this version of myself? She did not. And that makes me angry. So angry.”

Though Jaime doesn’t really see the anger. It is a thin veil covering a great sadness, a grief that threatens to pull even that strong body apart. And Jaime wants to keep her together, never having known of those fractures he caused, but he knows just as well that it is not his place, not his right, because he added those fissures, paved the way for them to form.

“Brienne…”

“You can go on all you want about how it was right of me to stay behind, how you wanted me to remain at Winterfell and keep myself protected and guarded. It changes nothing about…,” she argues, pressing the flat of her palm against chest, tapping it two times before folding her fingers awkwardly in her lap again.

“That doesn’t change, no matter what you say, no matter what justification or absolution you may give me,” she continues. “I carry that with me now.”

“I wished you didn’t.”

“It can’t be changed, for now anyway.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, please,” she sighs, sounding defeated, tired. “The more you apologize the more I feel like you are proving my point over and over again.”

Jaime bows his head. “Alright.”

Brienne closes her eyes, sucks in a deep breath, seemingly searching for the smallest of comfort coming with the gust of wind snaking through her blonde hair, leaving only a few strands at slight disarray.

“Be it as it may… All this still changes nothing about the circumstances of how you left. _Why_ you left… You left for what you said you did. You would have died with her. In a way, you did. It’s just that you were reborn while she was not,” she then goes on to say, entering more familiar turfs that Jaime found himself practicing for, though he already has a feeling that he will keep failing at the task the same way he keeps on losing at everything else beside his kingship.

“I thought that I was just about to tear you down with me. And I couldn’t take it. I wanted you to have a future, Brienne, more than anything I wanted you to live. I didn’t want to be the one to take a bright future away from you. My heart could not bear it.”

“Bright future,” she scoffs, sounding as though she was spitting the words out because they leave a bitter taste in her mouth.

“I feared I’d threaten your future, the future I was so desperate to keep safe. That had nothing to do with me not trusting you. I just didn’t think I’d have a future and I was afraid you’d share in that destiny if I didn’t… push you out of harm’s way. When we both lived beyond the Long Night… I thought that maybe Bran was wrong and I could finally… live… live with _you_ , and simply be the man you saw in me, the man I wanted to become so, so desperately. I held on to that with such desperation, you would not believe… but I was scared, every day and every night, I was scared.” He pounds his clenched fist against his ribcage.

“Scared of what?”

“That it couldn’t be that Bran was wrong in the end. He was right about _everything_. Because he knows everything. _How would he be wrong about me_ , I kept thinking, every night I lay beside you, not believing my own luck that you were with me there. I couldn’t understand it, couldn’t grasp it… until I came to the conclusion that he couldn’t be wrong after all.”

He swallows thickly, trying to gather himself as he can feel her flitting away even though Brienne remains right where she is. That former closeness, it seems so far away.

“And then the news came of what was going on in King’s Landing and… and I realized that my darkness… it flowed from my past, because of all the things I did and didn’t do. The people I let loose when I shouldn’t ever have. And I said to myself… I dared to hope that if I went before it was too late, I could safeguard at least one future, one bit of goodness not yet corrupted by… all that I was. I said to myself that if I weren’t there to take your future away, if I weren’t there to tear you down into my own darkness… you’d live, you’d have that future shining like a beacon. Because my darkness was calling, it was calling from the past, from here… and I was ready to walk towards it, if only so you would not.”

Brienne looks at him for a long moment, but then glances ahead. “And yet, here we are and the sun is still shining.”

“And yet, here we are, yes,” Jaime sighs, then shakes his head.

And that is a miracle, a miracle which almost feels like a wicked joke of the Gods, putting them close together after all that’s been, but leaving a thousand leagues between them even when just inches apart.

“I am sorry that those are the conditions under which all of that happens,” Jaime continues. “I am… I am so sorry, Brienne. So sorry. I truly am.”

She says nothing at that.

“I am, I truly am,” he insists. “I… I wished I had seen through all of it, I wished I had done things differently, not to leave you like this, not to leave you that hurt, but… I didn’t know how, back then.”

Jaime would like to walk back and make it better this time, but so many things he’d want to have seen changed taught him the lesson that the damage done is done.

A part of him would have wanted to walk away from the offer of becoming a member of the Kingsguard at such a young age, his old self would have liked to pull him back, take the young man with ideals and hopes in his eyes aside and warn him, berate him, curse at him not to do it, not to throw all of that away.

A part of him would have wanted to walk back in time to urge him to do something about the Mad King sooner, not to stand vigil as the man beat his wife, not to stand vigil as people burned until nothing remained of them safe for the screams in his ears.

A part of him would have wanted to walk back in time and tell his younger self not to fall for the allure of a love that all-consuming, not to fall for temptation of comfort when he felt like falling apart after the Mad King was no more and only the Kingslayer remained as a sad memento of world’s failure.

And perhaps the greatest part would have wanted to walk back in time to find her sooner, to be by her side sooner, not to curse her as much as he did, not to make her scowl as much as he did, and perhaps lead into a future that would have left darkness behind instead of right in front of him.

But those are all just wishful fantasies he knows won’t come about. There is no future to be found in the past, only ghosts of hopes for better outcomes long since out of reach.

“You could have died here, you nearly did, right by her side,” Brienne mutters, not looking at him. “You nearly did. Confronted with the choice of dying here, dying by her side, and living in the North, by my side… you made your decision… and yet, you didn’t get what you chose. There is sunshine over a city covered in ash instead. And you are the King… Fate is a curious companion.”

Right at this moment, Jaime feels all the more tempted to change the outcome of the events within the present time, feels an urge to tell her a different story from the one Brienne seems to have told herself ever since he rode away from Winterfell. It is the story of a man who loved so much that it lasted for two lives, if not three. It is the tale of a man whose love for that future was enough for him to leave all goodness, all light behind and readily ride towards his death over and over again. But Jaime knows he can’t recount that tale to her, can’t make it his own history, because the woman he’d be telling it to has long since suffered enough from his badly written stories always ending in tragedy.

He doesn’t want to burden her with another dead weight on her shoulders, doesn’t want her to burden herself with a man proved to be dead weight. Jaime knows she can carry so much more weight than most others can bear, can tear up hard bread all day long without complaining only just once. Brienne can find mildness and forgiveness and understanding where most others don’t even go looking for it. However, he also knows of this most fragile side of hers underneath her armor, the many layers of scorn and duty she hides behind, so not to reveal to the light a woman unsure of herself, a woman whose past had her believe that there was no way someone could love her so, could desire her so.

Brienne shouldn’t have to carry any more of his burdens, shouldn’t have to carry the weight of his decisions. Because, in the end, it seems, Bran remained right while Jaime’s interpretation remained skewed. Perhaps this was not his ending, the last days of his life, that awaited him past the day of the great fires that consumed the city. It seems almost far more likely now that this right here, the weight of the truth that his decision led him a thousand leagues away from her despite being right by her side, is his darkness calling, his punishment.

It seems far easier to speak of protection instead, of keeping each other safe, because those are acts of love, too, but of an easier kind, coming with fewer strings attached. And Jaime fears that those are the only strings he can still attach to Brienne without pulling on those fractures on the verge of breaking.

Jaime can’t be the reason why she breaks. He can’t deliver that final blow. That fragile bond between them, keeping them in one place despite the distance between them, it has to hold, and if Brienne can’t, he won’t keep asking, won’t push, won’t pull. He owes her that much, in fact much more, but that may be as much as Brienne will permit him, too good for this world, too good for the likes of him, by far.

“As I said, it was the call from my past that brought me here, a debt unpaid,” Jaime mutters, closing his eyes.

“And a Lannister is always foolish enough to try to pay his debts, oftentimes against better judgment,” she exhales.

“Maybe we should change the house words to that,” Jaime huffs, unable to bring himself to smile.

“Please don’t.”

“I wanted to protect the best I could, but it seems I kept failing despite my efforts,” Jaime sighs wearily.

“Which makes it the two of us.”

Both fall silent, listening to the wind moving rubble out of the way, whispering about new beginnings both may be able to see for the city but not inside the ruins of their own selves still on the verge of collapse.

“I am sorry that those are the conditions under which all of that happens. I am… I am so sorry, Brienne. So very sorry. I truly am. I never meant to hurt you. I…”

She says nothing at that.

“I am, I really am,” Jaime insists, more desperate than he would want to be, far more desperate than what he sounded like when he practiced the words over and over, looking at the cracks in the ceiling for guidance. “I… I wished I had seen through all of it, I wished I had done things differently, so not to leave you like this, not to leave you in that pain, but… I didn’t know how, back then, because I had to act fast. I couldn’t stay, not like this.”

The echo of her words resonates in his skull, making him wince at the phantom pains, of how he was not supposed to leave her. And the Gods will know how much he wanted to just take her hand into his and walk back inside, back to the warmth of the hearth, back to the warmth of her skin, her voice, herself, but he couldn’t back then and seemingly can’t now.

_Because the damage is done. The fractures are there. And they are on the verge of breaking, all because of me. Who else if not me? Because whoever I try to protect, I seem to bring into even greater peril._

“And I am so sorry that I had you believe that I didn’t trust you. I trust you, Brienne, I do, with every piece of myself, I do. It was myself I didn’t trust, my future I didn’t have faith in. Do you understand?”

Jaime hopes to at least erase that doubt, that pain from her mind, because nothing could be further from the truth than him not trusting her. Jaime doesn’t just know of her ability but her sheer strive to protect the people she cares about, now deserving or undeserving, of which he definitely considers himself to be the latter.

Brienne shakes her head with a sigh, and Jaime knows she would want to say something, but Brienne keeps it guarded, even more so without the armor to protect her. She is so far away while so close to him that it drives Jaime near mad. There was a point in recent time when he could solve those things with a mere touch, a pure kind of reassurance to speak up, to say what was on her mind.

But there lie a thousand miles between who they were at Winterfell and who they are now, and Jaime doesn’t know to where they are headed next.

“So… what do you expect from me?” Brienne then asks, pulling Jaime out of his thoughts, away from that mysterious road, back to her uncertain gaze only halfway brushing past his own.

He frowns at her. “I don’t expect anything from you. Why?”

“You sound as though you are asking forgiveness, as often as you say sorry,” she points out.

“I would like you to forgive me one day, but I know I have to earn that,” Jaime argues. He knows that a simple apology does not absolve you. It is something you have to earn, it is something you have to do. Words are only ever a first step, a reassurance, a promise.

Keeping it, that is the tough part.

Keeping her, that was the impossible part.

But that doesn’t mean Jaime wouldn’t want to try his best just to earn this bit again, to repair some of those fractures gaping underneath pale skin he still knows how it felt to his touch, so light may shine down on her again without casting too big a shadow behind her to carry with her through the city.

“Earn it,” Brienne repeats, the corners of her mouth curling into an uncertain grimace.

“If you’d… if you’d _trust_ me enough that those are my true intentions, I’d like to try to earn it, yes,” Jaime assures her.

She leans her head back with a sad smile. “You need trust to have a truce.”

“I want to get back there, if you let me, to earn that trust back, because… because I trust you, Brienne, I do, but I… I understand that I have to show you once more.”

She says nothing at that, though Jaime reckons there is nothing much that can be said, after all that was already done.

“I am just so sorry for everything, Brienne. I couldn’t even begin to recount all the ways in which I am sorry. I can only tell you how truly sorry I am for making you feel like that, for… for having you believe for far too long… all those things you just said. It’s just… I thought that this was my destiny in this city, that it was my destiny all along and I just kept running and running and running. I hope you believe me when I say that. And I hope you believe me when I say that I am sorry that I left you feeling like I did, that I did not tell you what I should have, but… but it was my own future I had no faith in, and I didn’t want that to… I didn’t… I couldn’t bear… I…”

When at last a single tear falls from her lashes, a surge of familiarity gets the better of Jaime before he can stop himself. Because there was a point in time when he reacted to it by offering comfort, not just with words but with himself. Before he knows, he is reaching out to her, but Brienne draws away from him before they can even touch. She wipes her fingers over her eyes, frustrated with herself, for what it seems, likely yearning all the more for her armor, for a projection from this feeling, from him.

Jaime bows his head. There was a time, however brief, when she didn’t flinch away from him but edged closer when he reached out to her. There was a time when she let him hold on tight to the part of herself she keeps so heavily guarded under the metal of her armor. There was a time when Brienne leaned into his touch, leaned into his kisses and smiled against his skin, when she found comfort and protection within his arms, forgetting about armor, sword, and shield, and let him engulf her with all of himself. There was a time when he dared to think that was enough, when he thought he could be enough. There was a time when none of this seemed difficult, when everything seemed easy, bright, and with a prospect of a future.

But those times are over.

That future is dead, was left to decay in the past.

It was buried underneath rubble that nearly took him but did not.

It was blown away by the winds outside the gates of Winterfell as he rode past without looking back. And no soft breeze right in this city will bring those precious moments back, will bring back those perhaps fractured but not on the verge of breaking bodies Jaime wanted to paint in the dark. There is no way to preserve the memory thereof with every touch, with every kiss, with every time she said his first name out of familiarity, with ease.

They ended while they both continued.

So yes, this world is mad, and Jaime doesn’t know to where he is headed anymore. Because all roads lead to her and away from her at the same time.

“I… if you want to earn it, then first and foremost: stop apologizing for what happened. I can’t hear it anymore,” Brienne says after a while.

“… Alright. I am sorry… I am stopping now,” Jaime scoffs, rubbing his stump and his left hand over his eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispers faintly.

“Anything else I can do? I mean, whatever it is… you just have to ask it. That I am King now has to be good for something, right?” he asks, his smile not reaching his eyes as they are too busy holding back unshed tears dancing along his lashes.

“I am afraid I don’t have an answer for that, not yet anyway,” Brienne tells him truthfully. “I… I just don’t know anymore.”

“I can wait. I _will_ wait… for as long as it takes. After all, I am supposedly meant to keep around,” Jaime says with half a smile.

For what it seems, they both will keep around, are just that close and yet so far away. And perhaps that is the cruel destiny the Gods have chosen for him as a way of punishment for his past sins, to keep the woman whose life means more to him than his own ever could right there with him while not there with him.

_Is that the Gods being just to me? I don’t know, but it seems I have to take it._

“Just one thing…”

“Anything!” Jaime blurts out.

“Keep doing what you do as our King.”

He blinks at her. “What?”

“Your cause is good. What you try to do for our nation… it is a good cause. I gave my vote to you because I believed in you, I still do, no matter what was… or wasn’t between us in the end. I believe in your reign, I believe in… in you as our new King,” Brienne goes on to say. “Because… it reminds me.”

“Of what?”

“The man I used to see in you even before all this happened. And that man… he was worth more forgiveness than he’d ever permit himself… and he was worth the trust,” she tells him.

Jaime swallows thickly, looking down. No, he doesn’t deserve that. He deserves to be cursed by her, he deserves her anger, her fury, her rage, but she won’t give it to him. Instead, Brienne still manages to show him forgiveness, to be mild with him when Jaime grew so accustomed to being judged when by those who shouldn’t judge him. And that even though Brienne would have any reason to judge him, even though it is her sentence Jaime would accept.

It’s just that he was served a sentence by her, and it is no rage, no curse. It is a promise of hope in someone who is hopeless when it comes to himself. And it is the weight of truth that he left more damage in its wake with leaving her than Jaime thought about, no matter how many times he practiced the words.

There are fractures now, fissures, cracks that don’t yet hold a promise of a blue sky above. Instead, they threaten to break something apart Jaime is more than desperate to keep together, to keep shielded, to keep protected, no matter how often he fails, fails, and fails again.

“I shall do my best to live up to that.”

“I… I believe you… I believe in you.”

_And while I don’t deserve that faith, I will take it. I won’t refuse it, not in front of you, ever again, Brienne, I promise you that, too. I will show you that your faith in me is justified. I will live up to it so you will hear me when I say that I trust you more than anyone in the world._

“Thank you.”

“I thank you.”

She looks around. “I am afraid I should head back. I can’t leave Gilly alone for that long, I…”

“Yes, yes, please, go ahead, I don’t want to keep you from going after your chosen duties,” Jaime says hurriedly, flashing a smile both likely know he can’t possibly mean but makes the effort to anyway. “I thank you, I honestly do. I hope… to see more of you?”

“We’ll see, Jai… Your Grace.” With that, Brienne gets off the stone and starts to walk away, her head lowered, her gaze hanging even lower. Jaime watches her walk back down the road from whence they came, no ease in her step.

Absently, his fingers brush over the stone where he can still feel the warmth Brienne’s body left there as an echo of herself, and that seems to be all he is entitled to of her at this point of time, at this point in his story of unsure outcomes.

“Jaime, just Jaime,” he whispers for no one but himself to hear, and for no one other than the soft breeze to take away. 


	9. Learning to See the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion has a daring proposal for Brienne.
> 
> Brienne has an unexpected proposal for Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *creeps out from under rock*
> 
> Hi everyone. I apologize a great many times for the silence. This chapter was a page in the arse because I kept changing it around about five times... and then "actual" life happened (aka the supposed "reality") wherein I had so much to do that I couldn't sit down and write lately. 
> 
> Anyway. I hope the chapter will make up for some of it. I thank you all for keeping around and leaving not just lovely kudos but also those encouraging, wonderful comments that have warmed my heart a great many times throughout the long silence. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Brienne grinds her teeth as she walks down corridors holding only fragments of memories, making it hard for her to remember where to go even though she walked those paths before. She had almost developed a sense of familiarity with the place back in those days before Joffrey died, little routines that gave her a most curious sense of belonging when Brienne was well aware that she did not belong there at all.

_And only the Gods knows if I ever will._

One of those little routines Brienne found herself secretly looking forward to was Jaime’s habit to come to her chamber in the morning to escort her to the dining room to eat together before he was off for duty. Jaime _insisted_ she’d get lost otherwise and that he couldn’t stand for that, _of course_ , not after he saved her from a _bear_ _no less_. Back then, it amused Brienne, or more truthfully, it made her heart beat just a little faster with every sunrise. Because it meant he cared. It meant to see a familiar face every morning that didn’t look at her with scorn or to make her feel like she should be gone and was overstaying her welcome. It made them both smile and fall into the same pattern of steps, her always one step behind him, hands folded in her back.

_And now I get lost three times in a row, even though I walked just those paths before_ , she thinks to herself with a scowl.  

Brienne lets her eyes travel over the walls, the floors, some of which still reveal the destruction that wreaked havoc through it not too long ago. Chipped marble and scratched ornaments. Broken off stone and pillars missing from otherwise perfectly symmetrical rows. Looking at this place now, it truly bears little semblance to the castle she walked through when she followed Jaime’s lead.

It’s not just the signs of destruction that have Brienne believe she entered an entirely new castle. It’s not the rubble in the corners, the walls torn down and hastily covered and repaired. It’s not the thin veil of dust and ash clutching to every surface as a sad reminder of the fires that burned far too many lives out of this city. It is because Brienne feels like a piece in a game she doesn’t belong to, a game she doesn’t know how to play because she doesn’t know the rules.

In fact, Brienne feels like she is getting lost in these halls even more so when she entered it the first time in her life, when Jaime was already gone ahead and she stayed behind to marvel at the Red Keep after their long voyage through the Riverlands came to its end. She walks with no one other than Oathkeeper by her side and the shadows dancing on the walls. And if she doesn't watch it, Brienne fears she may never make it out of that never-ending roundelay again.

It was by her own insistence that she went alone today. Pod would have been _more_ than happy to accompany her, far too aware of her troubles to Brienne’s liking. Though thankfully, he understood that she needed to go on her own and left it with the offer to escort her without pressing for more than she was willing to say. Brienne saw to it that Podrick headed out to the orphanages with Davos and Gilly, two people who grew to be a most unexpected potion against her ongoing sense of disorientation.

It still takes getting used to, to suddenly have people, _no, friends, actually_ , she reminds herself, show up early in the morning to pick her up for their daily duties of handing out food or just passing by to take her out for a walk by the harbor. Brienne does her best to push any dark thoughts away taunting her that it may be an act of pity after all, since most of them know what was back at Winterfell, _or rather, what was not_. She pushes those thoughts away because Brienne dares to rely on that strange feeling of companionship she only ever felt with Podrick.  

Because, against so many adds, she finds herself smiling more often than she would, going about her new paths all by herself. Davos has a tendency to make jokes anyway, and not always can Brienne just shake her head with a blank expression but actually has to laugh along. Gilly is very different from her in character, which is why Brienne never even wasted a thought on becoming her friend. Perhaps it is simply the young woman’s way about people, her easy-going, always friendly nature, but Brienne can’t deny she values the time she spends with her, with them. And that in itself douses at least some of the burning flame of doubt forcing heat to spread in her belly whenever Brienne hears those taunting voices echoing distantly in the back of her head about how kindness is a double-edged sword and that she must be weary of it.

However, now she is in the Red Keep, unsmiling, alone, and every shadow on the wall seems to follow her wherever she turns. Brienne grips the hilt of Oathkeeper all the tighter as she makes her way to where she was told to go, hoping that none of the shadows will take the shape of the King.

After the words exchanged at last, Brienne finds herself at an even greater disarray despite the fact that it strangely reassured her that King’s Landing truly is her place to be now. Yet, Brienne can’t face Jaime again, _not yet_ , and certainly not in that fashion. Her lips start to burn thinking about it and words only come out in a croak. Truthfully, Brienne does not know what to make of this, of them, of herself. Her heart holds no answers. It only asks more questions, scratches on the walls and doors Brienne means to keep shut, and she is running out of ideas of how to keep whatever darkness lies behind those walls from bleeding into her reality.

Jaime thought his world ended, he thought he was meant to end, and that is why he went away from her, why he left for King’s Landing, willingly riding towards his own death. Jaime wanted Brienne to live on without him. He wanted her to have a future he didn’t think he’d have. He wanted to protect her, save her, the way he has done more often than anyone ever would have believed the Kingslayer ever would or even could. Brienne believed Jaime when he admitted that to her at last, and she still believes in his honesty. What Jaime said to her, it was no lie.

_And yet… a truth remains he can’t seem to see and that I’d rather close my eyes to, but I can’t. I have to take a good look at myself in the looking glass after all, or else there is no moving forward, no way ahead._

The truth that remains, however painful, is this: She was not enough to make him stay. Brienne was not good enough, in his eyes, for what it seems, to defend his future, protect his life. And as much as it pains her, he was right with that. Brienne was not good enough to ride after him when she could have, should have. She didn’t, even though there was might in her body to fight, for him, for them, for what could have been but is no more. Brienne’s future was something Jaime was ready to die for, but a future for them he was not ready to live for, for what it seems.

And as much as Brienne tries not to think of it, _because it should not matter_ , there is another thought nagging her day in, day out. A thought about what would have been, had Jaime succeeded with his original plan.

_What would have been if he had saved Cersei?_

Whose future would he have taken part in, given the choice? Whose future was he ready to make his own, to claim as his and live within? There is no way to tell, Brienne knows that, which makes it all the more ridiculous that she just can’t seem to shake it off. Because she fears she knows the answer but simply can’t accept it when it is clearer than even the waters of the Sapphire Isle.

Because Jaime, for what it seems, was certain that Brienne’s future didn’t need him in it while his sister’s couldn’t be without his interference, without his presence within it. He thought Brienne could live on without him, but did Jaime believe his sister could? And even if he doubted that she could, would he have chosen to return to the woman he left at Winterfell to save the other in danger in King’s Landing? Or was he ready to return to the man he was before he and Brienne met? Become an entirely new man, swept to strange shores?

Shouldn’t it be unbearable to be without that person by your side?  

Shouldn’t it be a thing of impossibility to live without that person in your life?

Shouldn’t it be impossible for you to stay in your chamber and cry your eyes out?

Shouldn’t you fight for that shared life, that slightest chance of a tomorrow?

_So what were we, back then, if we didn’t do this, if we weren’t what we thought we were? To one another? To ourselves? And what are we now? What am I?_

Were they just tricking themselves into believing into a future that was never meant to be because it wasn’t what they thought it was? Couldn’t ever possibly be? Brienne is not sure, and in fact, she’d rather not ponder those questions at all.

Brienne doesn’t want those thoughts, those memories of a future that never were and won’t ever be, but they keep scratching on those oh too thin walls inside herself, ready to collapse like some many walls within the Red Keep she walked past today. Brienne doesn’t want to let those thoughts alter her paths anymore. She let that happen once, and it nearly cost Jaime his life and left her honor besmirched in ways that she can’t wash her hands clean of ever again.  

_What future is left for me in all this, though?_ she can’t help but wonder. Because none of those futures they thought about together or separately came to be. Cersei is gone and they are here, but how much power does the echo of a future lost still hold? Jaime was willing to die for Brienne’s future, and she can’t find it in herself to see the greatness within that future of hers that he was ready to give his own life for.

_I was not a true knight, I was not a true lo…_

Brienne stops in her tracks for a moment, sucking in the dusty air of the Red Keep. She has to do something with her life. She has to make it matter. Or else Jaime’s sacrifice will have been for nothing. Brienne may not have to prove Jaime wrong for not trusting her to save him, but she has to prove it to herself that he was wrong, that she can change things now that she didn’t back then.

_My deeds have to matter, they have to make a difference._

And they must reach beyond handing out food and toys. Brienne needs a purpose, not so stories may be written about her, not so her name passes on into songs, into legends. That is not her intention, no. Brienne wants to dedicate herself to a good cause, to his cause. She wants to do more, for the people, for Jaime – and in that way, for herself. Because Brienne now has to live on in this future, and for what it seems, she will have to show the strength Jaime trusted her to have, to live on not as they used to back at Winterfell, but on her own.

_And with some aid of some unexpected friends I may come forward along the way, who knows…_

She has a mission now, to earn trust and to learn to trust again. Brienne has to find a way to reach that path leading to a future where her actions make a difference, she knows she does, but walking those paths, Brienne doesn’t know where to turn even though she knows that the room she is seeking is just around the corner. But that doesn’t mean she can stop walking, so Brienne goes ahead once more, ignoring the taunting shadows on the walls, dancing on.  

At the end of the hallway she finds the large wooden door ajar, light cutting through the shadows like a knife. Brienne walks towards it, softly knocking on the open door before making a few tentative steps inside.

Apparently, the short man inside didn’t hear her approach as he stands with his face towards the windows, hands folded in his back, bouncing back and forth on his heels in anticipation, for what it seems.

_Which is strange enough._

After all, Brienne does not tend to inspire anticipation in people, safe for those who come to the soup kitchens or the orphanages. Because the lords and ladies certainly don’t see her for anything else but an oddity no one is looking forward to meeting or hearing from, even less so suggestions, let alone criticism.

Brienne opens her mouth, but no words come out. She swallows once, twice, then coughs before trying again, to get the man’s attention.

“You wanted to talk to me, my lord?” Brienne asks quietly, wincing at the small voice she is not keen on having during those moments. She doesn’t want to show weakness, doesn’t want others to catch sight of her vulnerability, even less so when it comes to a man who, no doubt, possesses a great talent to see through people and take advantage of just those weak spots.

Lord Tyrion turns around, flashing a bright smile at her, brushing away any pensiveness she could well see flicker across his face as he turned around. While Jaime and he share little physical traits, Brienne can’t help but wonder whether Tyrion inherited that way to smile from Jaime or Jaime actually learned it from the man standing before her. It is a smile that means nothing and thus could mean anything – and Brienne can’t say she ever learned to appreciate it.  

“Ah, Lady Brienne, yes, please, come in, come in,” he says, rolling his wrist at her to gesture her to come closer, his smile still having that certain effect on her that has Brienne want to coil back instead of walking towards it. Not because she finds Tyrion an unlikable character, quite on the contrary in fact. He knows how to charm. He knows what to say and how to say it to make you feel welcome, even when he would rather not welcome you at all. He knows how to lie. And _that_ is scaring her. A man who is swift in his lies does not need to wield a blade to cut you deep. And Brienne doesn’t know whether she can parry attacks of that sort yet, _if ever_.

She learned by now not to be weary of any kindness she is rewarded, daring to trust in the kindness she is given by the likes of Gilly and Davos. Yet, Brienne knows to approach kind smiles handed to her from people who know how to hide behind one with due caution. And Tyrion Lannister certainly possesses that skill.

Nonetheless, Brienne makes two more steps forward, looking around to take in her surroundings, trying to recognize the familiar and get used to the unfamiliar.

“Different from what it looked like the last time you were here, I imagine?” Tyrion asks. Brienne focuses her attention back on him. “Very much so.”

“We’re getting there. I am still having some debate about the new drapes with our King, who seems to be going for a more… simplistic design,” Tyrion says, smirking, but then snaps his head around, gesturing at the table. “Oh! Please, have a seat!”

Brienne frowns as he nearly _leaps_ over to the next best chair and pulls it back for her. She really doesn’t know what to make of that behavior, or of the man showing it. The only thing Brienne is fairly certain about is that Tyrion wants something of her. What remains yet to be determined is whether she is willing to give it.

“Thank you,” Brienne answers, sitting down slowly, her hand resting on Oathkeeper’s hilt. “So, how do I come to this honor?”

“Honor?” he repeats, smiling at the choice of words, for what it seems, which only adds to the young woman’s irritation. Brienne follows his every move as Tyrion pulls back the chair at the short end of the table and swiftly climbs on it to sit down as well.

_Just what is this man up to?_

She wets her lips. “Well, I’d suppose there is some urgent business if the _Master of Coin_ has you summoned to the Red Keep. And by extension, something that requires a certain amount of importance the Master of Coin would mean to assign to you, thus. Why else would he take the time, make the effort, to see you?”

Tyrion folds his hands on top of the table, starting to knead his knuckles. “Well, to begin, _as Master of Coin_ , I can only thank you again for the _efforts_ you and your father undertook to help us in those most troubling times. There is a lot of money and resources we need but don’t yet have. Your aid was very much needed, very inspirational, and is all the more appreciated.”

“For that you didn’t have me come here.” Brienne shakes her head. She should have known that Tyrion wouldn’t have anything else than some scheme in mind. Didn’t she learn any better by now? Is she still that much of a fool? Didn’t the feast teach her all that she had to know about that man and his kind of kindness?

_When do you ever learn, you foolish thing?_

Tyrion smirks at that, tilting his head, looking strangely amused by her comment. “What makes you think that?”

“You wouldn’t waste both our time if that was the only reason. You are smarter than that,” Brienne replies, tapping her fingertips of her free hand on the table, finding the spikes of pain travelling up her fingers strangely calming.

“I suppose there have been some _tensions_ between us two after… _the feast_ , if you know what I mean,” Tyrion says, coughing lightly, though still flashing that smile Brienne wished he would stop making. Because she can’t read it. It means nothing because it is nothing. It’s not honest. It bears without consequence. It’s an easy escape, a swift way out, and she does not know how to follow.

“I have a fairly good recollection of the events, yes. The wine may have blurred out some of the edges, but the moments that created _tension_ are rather crystal clear in my mind,” Brienne replies, making sure to keep her voice leveled the best she can, because she won’t revisit that, even less so with someone who has his ears and lips everywhere.

“I was just pushing my brother’s luck a bit,” Tyrion argues, winking at her.

Brienne narrows her eyes. “It didn’t need pushing… and certainly not in the way you pushed.”

She looks aside, trying her best to shove those images far, far away, outside her body, through the cracks and out into the open where she knows the sun to shine and cold winds to blow. Brienne doesn’t want to remember the game, the feast, the chase, the knock on the door. She doesn’t want to remember how her opening that door that night opened another she kept guarded for so very long and now finds shadows creeping through no matter how hard she pushes from the other side.

“I do apologize if I crossed you that night,” Tyrion offers, smiling that little meaningless smile all over.

“ _If_ you crossed me,” Brienne repeats, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“ _That_ I crossed you,” he corrects himself.

Brienne exhales deeply. She knows that all of this is ridiculously small, compared to what happened after the feast, what happened between and away from all of those who now still stand as the living. None of this should matter anymore. Brienne shouldn’t remember it or even if she does, she should know where to put it, should know how to ignore it and keep walking. She has a mission after all, whatever shape it may take, but of that Brienne is certain, walking into those dark rooms inside her heart is not doing her any favors. It doesn’t do anyone any favors. And while she could care less for what it does to the heart of the man sitting across from her, Brienne knows that more is at stake.

She has to let that anger go, the doubts, the grief.

She has to let it all go, let it slip away and leave her for good.

She has to let it be taken through the cracks and up into the air by the cold winds whispering through the leaves of the few trees still standing. Because her future is here, whatever shape it may take. That is the one thing she knows with surety by now. Her future is here.

“… Accepted,” Brienne sighs, closing her eyes for a moment. “There are more urgent affairs than that.”

Tyrion taps his wrists on the table with a smile. “I thank you, Lady Brienne. It’s good that we finally got that out of the way.”

“I believe that is the least that stands between us.”

He grimaces. “True.”

“So. What do you want from me? Why am I here?” Brienne asks once more, not liking it that he forces her into asking questions. She’d rather have Tyrion just say what he wants so she can make up her mind based on it, but that is not the game Tyrion Lannister likes to play, she should know. At the same time, Brienne doesn't know how to swiftly escape that situation, how to turn the tables in the game he is playing.

“I… want to make a proposal to you,” he says.

“Not interested,” she retorts bluntly.

Tyrion sniggers. “Not in _that_ way.”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “I guessed as much.”

“I really like your sense of humor, Lady Brienne.”

“I don’t have one,” Brienne huffs. “I seem to have mislaid it many years ago.”

_When you are the person people joke about all the while, you don’t tend to create even more laughter directed at yourself, no matter the form._

At least she didn’t. Brienne learned to keep her happiness guarded ever since she was a young girl, ever since she realized that she was the ugliest girl in the world. She learned not to smile on most occasions. She learned not to attract laughter beside the one she is rewarded for her very nature.

So yes, she mislaid it long time ago, and Brienne has actually not much intention to get it back. She may have let that slip this one time during the feast, but that was owed to wine and the ecstasy of survival against the living dead.

_And see to where it led me…_

“I think you are wrong about that, but that’s not the matter… The matter is the proposal. And the proposal I am meaning to make is one of mutual benefit, I may add right from the beginning,” Tyrion tells her.

Brienne curls her lips into a frown. “How so?”

“Because I think both sides can profit from the agreement, granted that we can make one here today,” he explains, smiling almost shyly. “But I am drifting off once more. I still haven’t told you what my proposal is, right?”

“… Yes?” Brienne grimaces, not knowing what to make of the man. Is he joking? Is he making fun of her? Of himself? Is this some clever trick to get her into doing something she normally wouldn’t? Or is he really just a bit confused? Uncertain? Nervous?

_Just what is going on here?_

“I… want to learn from you,” Tyrion says at last.

Brienne whips her head around. “You… _what_?!”

“I want to learn from you,” he repeats, as though that made any more sense this time around.

Brienne snaps her jaws together with a click, her frown impossibly deepening, before blurting out with the question, “What? Swordfighting?”

He laughs throatily at that. “No, no. I think that this is out of the question. I did passably enough with an axe one time, but I have no intention to walk the path of a small warrior ever again, I am afraid. I’d rather leave that to the soldiers and the knights from now on.”

“Then what would I teach you that you don’t already know?” Brienne asks.

What would Tyrion Lannister want to learn from her? Isn’t he supposed to be oh so clever? Doesn’t he know how to scheme already? Isn’t that why she clutches Oathkeeper so tightly, feeling any urge to walk back to Pod, Gilly, and Davos, and tread familiar paths again instead of entering the small lion’s den?

“There is a lot that I don’t know. In my experience, there is always more that we don’t know in the world than we actually do know… But the thing I’d mean to learn from you is… how to be a good person.” Tyrion runs his entwined fingers over the ring he wears on his left hand, twisting the metal band round and round again.

“What… what are you talking about? This is not making any sense.”

“You are a good person. Which is… a rarity in our time and age, I believe, but… you are.”

Brienne shakes her head at that, finding her stomach tighten. “I am not.”

“Lady Brienne…,” he means to say in a soothing voice, but Brienne cuts him off before he can even make the attempt, “No. Is that… Did Jaime ask you for this?”

_Really, you foolish thing! Didn’t you see that coming? It has to be!_

Jaime is still far too concerned for her wellbeing, worried that her foolish heart will break at the blows received. And Brienne wouldn’t put it past him to send his brother in to see that she is rewarded some gentle words of encouragement after the conversation they had. And that even though Brienne wants none of that, wants none of that kindness.

_Because **I** have to earn that. Doesn’t he understand that? Can’t he see?  _

Tyrion holds up his hands. “No, not at all. He knows nothing about this meeting. That was entirely my idea.”

“He sent you,” Brienne insists, feeling any urge to get to her feet and leave. Because no, that is no path leading her forward, and she has no intention to walk in that direction, not ever.

“He did not, I promise you. I saw to it that the King was out of the Red Keep to visit the sickbays to lift the peoples’ spirits, just to be sure that this stayed between us two. Because this _is_ between us two,” Tyrion tries another time. “For now anyway.”

Brienne clenches her jaws to the point that her head is protesting, but eventually settles down again, her hand clutching Oathkeeper all the tighter. “So what now? Do you mean to compliment me on my supposed goodness to be in my good graces again? Is that a Lannister paying his debts for the words spoken at the feast?”

“No. It’s a proposal, as I said. One of mutual benefit, as I also said.”

“I am not interested in trade,” Brienne lets him know, wrinkling her nose. “I am not interested in making clever deals.”

She is interested in something much greater than that. Brienne wants a future bearing meaning, one living up to the expectations she once disappointed when she was not brave, when she did not protect, when she failed, failed, failed.

Tyrion lets his head hang low, blowing out air through his nostrils. “I know… I think I started this the wrong way, so you see… I really have a lot to learn, still, or else this would run much more smoothly than it currently does.”

Tyrion edges forward in his seat, looking back at her with an expression Brienne can’t read at all, even though she watches him so very closely. She can see his features tightening, his knuckles turning white. By all accounts, Brienne would say the man is nervous. _Nervous!_ And here she thought that someone like Tyrion Lannister long since knew how to rid himself of such sentiment through his cleverness.

_He may be right on that account, there is much more that we don’t know than what we know._

“What I am trying to say is… I think you are a good person, _based on my own observations_. Not to flatter you. Not to make you forget about some boundaries I overstepped during the feast. I am telling you that I think you are a good person because I believe this to be true,” Tyrion explains. “Most of the time, though not as often as I would like and should have… I am rather good at reading people. And I believe that I read that much about you, despite the fact that we didn’t really have a chance to get to know one another, something I, too, would mean to change now.”

“And based on your observations, you deem me good,” Brienne says, tapping her fingertips on the table once more.

_Then what way were you looking, my lord? Certainly not in the right direction, for what it seems._

“Why, yes.”

Brienne licks her lips, looking down. “Well, then I am sorry to disappoint you, but you seem to have misread me, my lord. Because I am not… I am not a good person.”

“What has you think that?” He furrows his eyebrows.

“The fact that we are where we are now. The fact that I… I broke an oath,” Brienne admits. She would rather not let him in on this, but Brienne doesn’t know how to be clever about those things, how to tell a lie to slip away. All she has is honesty, and for where she can’t speak, she has her silence.

_But silence won’t satisfy a man like him. For that, Tyrion Lannister enjoys talking far too much._

“What oath?” Tyrion grimaces at her, looking genuinely surprised by her words.

“You were present, don’t you remember? Before the battle at Winterfell? When Jaime knighted me?” Brienne answers, her expression blank albeit tight. “I made an oath to be brave, to protect the innocent. Look around you, my lord, and then tell me, _honestly_ tell me, that I was brave. That I protected the innocent from the fire that swept across the city. Tell me that I protected anyone other than myself. Tell me and make me believe it, because I can’t.”

His grimace twists into a faint, awkward smile, which only lasts there for a second, if not less. Tyrion looks down, kneading his knuckles, twisting his ring, chewing on his bottom lip. “You are aware that you are speaking to the person who… became complicit in what happened here? Who helped set this city ablaze? And so many people along with it?”

“Frankly, that doesn’t matter here,” Brienne tells him. “Which is not to say that your regret doesn’t matter. But it doesn’t do away with my negligence. It doesn’t do away with the fact that I was _not_ a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, not even six of them. I was not a knight. At all. So no. I am not a good person. Good people… they don’t do that. Good people… they act. They go into a city burning. They try as best as they can. They try. They don’t give up. They save as many lives as possible, with their own life at stake. _That’s_ what good people do. But it’s not what I did.”

And that’s why she trusts good people only, which makes it hard for Brienne to trust herself ever since. Because Jaime was right not to trust her to protect her, was right to trust her not to come after him. She did not, and that won’t ever wash away, won’t ever stop haunting her, taunting her, like the shadows on the walls, dancing on.

“Which is why we now call a certain someone King,” Tyrion says. “Because he did.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “He did.”

“Lady Brienne,” Tyrion tries again, tapping his fists on the table lightly. “Let me assure you that you _are_ a good person. Even if you don’t feel like it. Even good people make mistakes. Even if I… still think you should not blame yourself for any of what happened, because you couldn’t have prevented it…”

“Jaime couldn’t prevent it either. Did that stop him? No. And what stopped me?”

_A foolish heart, that’s all. Though it shouldn’t have been, shouldn’t be now – or ever again._

“I understand that you want to pay back. I understand that this what you feel. Because… I feel the same, believe it now or not, Lady Brienne. A Lannister always pays his debts, but I am afraid I won’t be able to repay them even in ten lifetimes.”

Brienne studies the man for a long moment. She can’t spot any of this gleam in his eyes that tends to make her cautious, has her weigh his words even more carefully than she does by nature. For what it seems, he speaks from the heart, and that heart seems broken, too, if in different ways.

_But can it be? Or did he just get better at the task than I ever thought?_

She can’t tell, so Brienne has to tread carefully, because falling now again, failing once more, she cannot afford it.

“So what? You take pity on my feelings of guilt and want me to feel better about it so you can feel better about it yourself in turn?” she questions.

“I suppose it might be a side effect, but it is not why I am asking you for this… favor,” Tyrion argues.

“Then _why_ are you asking me for it?”

“Because we both share in something. We share in wanting to pay back the people we either feel we left behind… or actually left behind to the point that they won’t ever come back, in my case,” Tyrion tells her, gesturing around the room. “We share in wanting to make… _this_ work, to repair what was broken, to help Jaime be the king we know he can be. Do I have that right?”

“Yes,” she replies curtly. Brienne would like to say that he is wrong, would like to hide away, so he may not see what his clever eyes pick up far too easily. Yet, he is right, and she can’t deny it, as much as she would like to. They share in this.

“And that is why I think we can help one another achieve that,” Tyrion continues. “Or at the very least… get closer to it.”

“How?” Brienne asks softly.

Because she doesn’t even know where to begin. Brienne still gets lost in hallways.

“As I said, I think you are a moral person. You have a sense of what is right and what is wrong. What is honorable and what is not. And you _will_ say it. Because you are a nobly born daughter. You are not a peasant who’s afraid of speaking too loudly to a lord. You are honest enough to confront people even when more is at stake. You didn’t with my brother, you don’t with me. You won’t hold back. And while you may not believe it, I actually like that about you a lot, Lady Brienne.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “Do you?”

“I admire it, actually. Because most lords and ladies I ever met in my entire life… and I made the acquaintance of a lot of lords and ladies throughout my life… way too many, in fact… They know how to whisper better than they know to speak the truth. They hide behind kind words, easy smiles, behind schemes, promises that amount to nothing, alliances breaking as easily as the thinnest twig. They continue to play a game. But for you, this is not a game.”

“Not, it’s not.” She shakes her head.

Tyrion smiles. “You speak your mind. You don’t decorate your words, you don’t cloak them, you don’t disguise. You _are_ honest.”

“There is more honest people out there beside me, which still begs the question that, out of all people there are, you want _me_ to do you that favor, to agree to that proposal,” Brienne argues, licking her dry lips. “And you still didn’t really tell me why it has to be me and no one else.”

All the things he said, Brienne understands them as reasoning, but they don’t answer that one very important question: Why does Tyrion want her of all people to make such a deal with, why does he want to learn from her? He has a council full of people who could teach him some many things. There are people out in the streets whose stories he could listen to in order to learn from them. And yet, here they sit, and it is her Tyrion chose as his teacher.

_But why? Why me?_

Is it just deceptive kindness once more? Is it an act of charity for him to ease his mind? Or is he really so set in his ways that he can’t imagine anyone else when Brienne could name a good handful off the top of her head to do that with him instead of her?

“Certainly there are honest people out there, but not one quite like you. As I said, you fulfill criteria no one else does. You are nobly born, yet you know the hardships of the people. You care. You know our King, better than most.”

She looks aside.

_Do I? Did I ever? Can I ever?_

“You know what is good, and what is not. And you are not afraid to say it to a peasant the same way you’d say it to a lord, even a king. And you know how to stand your ground in an argument, or else I wouldn’t have as much of a hard time to convince you as I currently do,” Tyrion goes on to say with a grin. “You see, Lady Brienne, I need someone like you to be honest with me. And since there is no one like you, I need you to be to me like you are right now.”

“And how am I to you right now?” she wants to know.

“Skeptical. Ready to fight. Not taking any of my easy smiles. Not falling for my tricks. Not buying into the words I speak just because I am a lord, a Master of Coin, the King’s brother. Ready to get back up and leave if I don’t convince you sometime soon,” he laughs.

She wets her lips, her muscles tightening. He really is good at reading people, Brienne will have to give him that much. “How would that help you?”

“You see, I grew up only having my clever mind to fight with. My sister had her looks, her way with people, her schemes… Jaime had his fighting skills, his charm… I had my mind and whatever book I could feed to it. I came to believe that being smart was my weapon against a world that didn’t like to have broken things inside it. But the more you read and the more you get involved with politics… the cleverer you find yourself to be, over time. I found myself _very_ clever far too soon. Because I outsmarted people. Lords. Ladies. Kings. Queens…”

He glances over to the window for a moment, lost in thought, but Tyrion soon looks back at her, his fists tightening, his teeth grinding. “I liked that a lot. I liked that game – and I wanted to keep playing it. It made me… it made me feel powerful in a way I never felt in my entire life. Because powerlessness… that was what I always felt, since a young age. But when I played this game and kept winning… I didn’t feel powerless. I felt strong.”

“Well, we all try to find out what we are good at and build on that, I suppose,” Brienne ponders. “I don’t pride myself being good at what you do. I am good at the sword, so that is what I trained most of my time, to hone that skill instead of wasting my time on learning something I knew I would never be as much as passable at.”

“You undoubtedly are a skilled fighter. But I also think you are better at a lot of things than you give yourself credit for, Lady Brienne… but that’s another matter, too,” he sighs. “What I am trying to say is… when you think yourself a clever man, like I did, you tend to surround yourself with a certain kind of people. I liked to be around people whom I could… you know, teach a lesson, impress with my wit, my schemes. I liked to hear myself talk and explain. Show how smart I was. To keep winning that game. To feel strong…”

He gazes over to one of the windows once more, his mind travelling to places Brienne wouldn’t ever know, but he is quick to focus his attention back on her, shaking his head as though he can’t allow himself to go to that place far away.

“Or I liked to be with people who matched my skill, who may even beat me in my own game. I liked that challenge. It was all part of this game, to nearly miss but turn out victor regardless.” Tyrion chews on his bottom lip. “But… what they all shared in was that… I surrounded myself with people like me. With people who… didn’t give much on moral, honor, justice. I stayed away from those people for the most part, safe for my brother and Podrick.”

“And why is that?” she asks.

“Because I was clever,” he chuckles softly, sadly, even. “And because I was clever, I knew I couldn’t win an argument based on honor, based on moral, justice. Because what I proposed, more often than not, had little to do with that. My tactics never would have stood to the test against morality.”

“So… you want to lose the game?” Brienne questions. “Do I have that right?”

“I want to win. But not treat it as a game anymore. Because it is not. I want to do what I am good at. But I came to see that… what I am good at is… not playing the game. That is studying, that is learning. A hunger for knowledge, stories. I want to learn again. I want to learn from you, with you…”

“And I ask you again: Why me?” Brienne insists. “Why me and no one else? Because I am sure there are people who will challenge you. I assure you there are better people than me.”

“You achieved so many good things I did not, that is why. I look at Pod and I see it, shining like a bright light in a great darkness still looming above our heads. You made him a man, a _good_ man. You gave that lad what he always wanted but what I didn’t, because I liked him to be a squire according to _my_ needs but not according to _his_. I walk through the streets of King’s Landing and I see people _smiling_ again, because they have the feeling at last that lords and ladies take care of them, lords and ladies in armor. And this is thanks to you. You may not believe it, but I can tell from observation, you inspire something quite unexpected in people around you.”

Brienne hears a ringing in her ears, shrieking shrilly. What is he saying? And how can he mean it? Tyrion is clever, is he not? Shouldn’t he know better? Shouldn’t he see something Brienne knows to be so obvious? That she is not what he believes her to be? Because she doesn’t inspire, not in that.

 “Lord Tyrion, that is…,” Brienne tries to say, but he interjects, “You just have something I find myself lacking.”

“And that is?” she asks faintly.

“An innate goodness, an innate justness, and… a way of always getting back to one’s feet and doing what’s right, even when it is hard, impossibly hard. You don’t shy away from a challenge, even if your own heart, for what it seems, is at stake,” Tyrion explains. “My cleverness often got in the way of my conscience. Because, had I listened to the latter far sooner, who knows what that could have prevented.”

“It is a future that never was…,” she whispers.

Like the future with Jaime that never was and won’t ever be. And they will all have to accept that the paths they walked or didn’t walk led them to where they are standing now. They will have to keep walking it, because going back is no longer an option. Brienne can’t go back to her chamber and yell at that woman sitting by the fire, shedding her tears, to get up and move, to get up and follow him, to get him, to have his back, to be by his side, no matter the consequence.

_This is the one direction we can no longer go._

“You are right,” he sighs. “And that is why change has to happen now, now or never. And you can help me change, I believe.”

“By letting you learn again.”

“Yes. I grew used to being clever. And what did I give it up for? Learning. For a long time, I thought I knew more than any person I knew and that this was good enough. It’s _not_ good enough. It’s never good enough.” He shakes his head. “This is not about becoming cleverer. This is about becoming… _better_. I have to learn to be better than the man I used to be, still am. Because the man who was just oh so clever… he stood far too long with a person he long since suspected was… walking off the track of her once noble intentions. He stood with her because he thought he was clever enough to change her mind. He thought he was clever enough to twist and turn this till the last moment, with the ring of a bell. He couldn’t. Because he was clever, yes, but not good enough. A good person wouldn’t have done that… a good person wouldn’t have sacrificed… a friend, a good friend… only just to keep playing the game… a sister, however terrible she was… almost his brother, too… and innocent people… men, women, children… so many of them.”

Brienne says nothing as Tyrion unfolds his hands and rubs them over his eyes, removing his fingers with a glistening layer of water on them.

“I can’t magically make you a good person or… pay the debt for you, which you feel you have to pay back,” she argues faintly. “That is no power I possess.”

She is no beacon of hope. Brienne doesn’t even know if she can find a purpose and live up to the deeds that it would require to make her life matter for more than herself. And here is a man who suddenly wants to put faith in her, in her goodness.

_And am I about to disappoint such hope all over again? Is that my fate, my future?_

“And I don’t expect you to, Lady Brienne. Not that I expect anything anyway… I am asking… begging, in fact,” he tells her.

“You… are begging me.”

Tyrion nods. “Yes, I am. From the bottom of my heart, I am. I am begging you to help me learn to be a better person. To be the man my brother, our King, needs by his side to live up to his name. To truly be King Jaime the Honorable. Because I find myself slipping into old habits. I find myself trying to cut corners. And I can’t. I mustn’t. I have to walk every mile, even if my feet hurt, even if my whole body protests and wants to lay itself down. And _that_ is why I am hoping that you are willing to help me walk that way, at least for a while. Not for my sake. But for my brother’s. For that of the people. Because they deserve a better man than I am to run their financial affairs. To advise their King. I have to be more… honorable. I have to be more just. I have to be more than just clever.”

“And how do you think can I do that, practically speaking?” Brienne asks. “How would you want this to go?”

“By becoming my personal pain in the arse,” he then says with a smirk.

She blinks repeatedly. “Pardon me?”

Brienne reckons she will have to get used to those shifts, not just how Jaime can display them but also with his brother. Because the excitement now sparking up in his eyes, it seems just as genuine as his plea for help. And truthfully, Brienne mentally readied herself for his scheming and lies, but what she wasn’t prepared for was this man’s utter honesty.

“I want you to… listen to ideas I have. For this nation. For finances. Policies. How to deal with certain people who are… not keen on having a new king whose name is Lannister. Who is still known as the Kingslayer, and seen as such. I want you to listen to those ideas. And I have many of them, I may warn you… Once I explained them to you, I want you to tell me everything you find wrong with them. And by everything… I _mean_ everything.”

“And you can’t possibly do that by just proposing your ideas to the Small Council?” Brienne questions with a grimace.

“I could, but I’d rather have you listen to my thoughts first. Because this is not just about the ideas, it’s about me and how I come to them. I have to figure out a new path for myself, have to step out of my old ways. I need to humble myself. And I believe that the Small Council is not the place for such. This time should be dedicated to the people, not to my own affairs.”

“And you think that this will make you a better man? That I tell you what I find wrong with what you propose? I think you hold my honor in too high regards, my lord. Because as much as you seem to make me out to be a beacon of honor, I hope I have laid out why you should not be so easy to pass that judgment,” Brienne warns him.

It’s as he said, they share in this guilt, this all-consuming guilt, and while it takes on different forms, it wears the same cape. And Brienne doesn’t know how someone she found guilty can help a man who is just as guilty, or differently guilty, for that matter.

“I am more than willing to take the risk. And to answer your question: Yes, I believe that this will make me a better man. I am actually fairly certain. More certain than I have been about a great many things as of late. Because I have seen it work before.”

Brienne frowns at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“My brother,” Tyrion answers simply, as though it is most obvious, when, in fact, it is not.

Brienne frowns. “What of him?”

“He is a better man since he met you. And by that I mean going all the way back to how he returned to King’s Landing after his gruesome maiming. He is a better man than he used to be. He is a better man for having met you, because of you.”

“That’s not…,” she argues, shaking her head, but Tyrion insists, “My brother wasn’t always morally just. He did some things… we both know that. Let’s not pretend.”

“But there is honor in him,” Brienne insists.

More than most people begin to comprehend, more than the lords and ladies at the coronation will ever understand. Because they continue to play games while Jaime lived the reality of the Game of Thrones under bad kings and queens.

“No doubt. But you… you brought it back to light, Lady Brienne, whether you want to see it or not. You brought out in him the goodness he denied himself to still possess. I observed you and him… for at least a while, before Joffrey died, then in the Dragonpit, then at Winterfell. You challenged him. On every decision. You never let him just have an easy solution, which is what us Lannisters tend to do, as we were taught since we were all but children,” Tyrion tells her.

“You mean I was a pain in the arse?” Brienne huffs.

He chuckles. “My brother certainly thought of it that way by the time.”

“He told me so, yes,” she scoffs. “In just those words, actually.”

And as odd as it may seem, Brienne finds herself longing for those easy arguments they used to have. There was lightness to them, no strings attached. Now there are string tied to every word they speak to one another, and Brienne is afraid of getting caught up inside that web without ever finding herself out again, forced into stillness, brought back to a state of powerlessness she, too, never wants to feel like having ever again in her life.

“The point is… that you challenged Jaime. You challenged his views, his methods. Over and over again. You did not give up. You asked questions. You didn’t take no for an answer. You never were just satisfied with what was the easiest, whereas I am. You know why? Because that is what clever people liken themselves to do. We find the paths of minimal effort. But we, this group of people meant to rebuild this nation, we need to make the effort. Because Jaime is the Honorable. We have to make this right, and as best as we can, have to make it right upon first try. Because hardly any king has been under more scrutiny than Jaime currently is.”

“I know,” she sighs, the faces of the lords and ladies on the ranks still too vivid on her mind. Brienne saw not just scorn there, not just misgiving. There was hatred, there was envy, all those emotions dark enough to motivate a great many people to start a rebellion, hire a sellsword or a member of the Faceless Men to do the deed, but quietly.

“I am merely asking you to be uncomfortable for me. To be unkind if need be, not to hide behind formalities. To speak your mind, unafraid, and call into question whatever you find wrong with what I propose, with what I do, with who I am. To be… you, to me. Because that is indeed something only you, Ser Brienne of Tarth, can do for me,” Tyrion explains.

“So… you tell me what you have in mind, I tell you what I have to say about that, and then you do what I say? I don’t believe that.” She shakes her head. “Or else I could make the decisions all along.”

“Very true. And that would likely waste both or time indeed. No, I reserve for myself the right to make adjustments and make decisions for those proposals, of course. Because, as much as it may displease you in particular, sometimes… we _have_ to be clever about things, too. Especially when dealing with a certain kind of people. We may not treat it as a game, but that doesn’t mean we can afford to quit playing it. I believe you have seen them, too, during the coronation, those who still play, and are eager for this game to continue.”

“I have.” Brienne swallows thickly.

And it frightens her. Because against them, Brienne feels all the more weaponless, once again ill-equipped to defend the man she already failed once in this city.

“Then I suppose you know that we can’t always afford the… most honorable solution. Because they don’t care about that. They don’t have it, most of them.”

“So I am not that honorable after all,” she snorts.

“I know you will likely disagree with me on that matter, too, but… I believe it wasn’t just you who affected my brother. It went both ways. He did something to you, to the way you saw the world, by confronting you with his thoughts, his realities. Do I have that right?” Tyrion asks.

“… Yes,” Brienne admits.

Jaime showed her an ugly side of the world where oaths can’t matter, where breaking an oath is necessary to keep another, where you have to besmirch yourself, your honor, be willing to pay the ultimate price, to protect half a million people from a madman willing to set a city ablaze. It was not part of Brienne’s reality, of her moral codes, until Jaime made it such.

He opened her eyes to a harsh truth, and while it took Brienne a while to adjust her gaze, to see the world in a different light, and while it may have made it a lot darker, she finds it as a gift now. Because it made her see that honor takes on different shapes, and that honor comes from all sorts of places, and can come even from a man formerly known as the Kingslayer.

“See, and we need to be… we need to be _idealistically realistic_ , I believe. We need to hold on to ideals, yes. We desperately need higher moral ground than what was there before. No less would Jaime want to come out of his reign, I am most certain. But we also need to see… the situation for what it is. We need to be realistic about it. And that there aren’t always straight, elegant solutions.”

“Sadly not,” she sighs.

There was a time when she thought life was a straight line and that if you kept on the path, you could do no wrong. And for many years, Brienne believed herself to walk just that path, but life leads across fields and forests, over slippery stones and mossy ground. There are crossroads, paths with stones in the way, swamps and wild animals, dragons and those who believe themselves to be such. And as much as she wished the world to be that simplistic as she once thought it to be, Brienne now knows and understands that right is not always right.

“Perhaps it will be different for future generations, but as of now, the world is covered in the dust and ashes of old. The wheel Daenerys Targaryen meant to break… it’s still very much in place and turning round and round again.”

“And it would have been in place with her as Queen all the same,” Brienne mutters.

Tyrion grimaces. “I see that now, too, even though I let myself be blinded by ideals back in those days, the vision of the world she had before it turned to something else. I will have to admit to that as well. I lost reality out of sight and only saw what could be. What could have been… though never was. We can’t afford that. Jaime can’t afford that. For that, his reign is resting on far too shaky pillars. So the reason why I want to learn from you of all people, why I want you to challenge me, why I want you to listen to my ideas and tell me all you find good and bad about them, about me, is that I think you are… you have what it takes to beat me. And by doing so, I have faith that you will help me become who I have to be… to be better, to be the man I need to become, for my brother and for the people I am to serve.”

“… And what do I learn from this?” she asks.

“To be clever about some things, but with honorable intentions in mind. I think we can both get there – together,” Tyrion answers. “And before I forget, it’s not just my yearlong expertise in political scheming I would mean to offer you.”

“Then what else is it that you mean to offer me as part of your most strange proposal?” Brienne questions.

“Making you feel less powerless in your efforts to aid the people you feel you let down,” Tyrion tells her, leaving little doubt in Brienne’s mind that he means every word of it. “Which is to say that I am offering you a chance to help shape this nation.”

Brienne cocks an eyebrow at him. “As an advisor of an advisor.”

“Yes, but it should be more than me talking and you listening to tell me afterwards how wrong I was. I want you to give me your ideas, those you are willing to share. I am in dire need of inspiration for the good man I need to be in order to do right by the people I did such a horrid wrong to,” he replies.

Brienne chews on her bottom lip. “I am not clever.”

“You are much cleverer than you have others believe, I am quite sure. But this is not about being clever. This is about you coming to me when you have an idea you want to see realized. You have already begun with that. You came up with relief efforts for the city. You aid the people and that makes them see lords and ladies in a new light,” Tyrion tells her. “I want you to continue just that, but without fearing to come to me to see about how we execute it.”

Brienne shifts in her seat, looking down. “What I did were small deeds at best.”

“But deeds that eased the suffering of many,” he argues softly.  

“Much more needs to be done. Much more should be undone,” she mutters.

“And sadly, undoing things is not within our powers.”

“I know. I wish it were, though. I think we all do.”

“Indeed. And believe me that much, Lady Brienne, if there was a way to retrace my steps ever since we parted from Winterfell… I would keep walking in just that direction and do it all differently this time. But this is none of the gifts we were granted. But we were given other fortunes. We were granted a second chance. A chance of paying back.”

Tyrion unfolds his hands and puts them flat on the table, looking Brienne deep in the eye. “I know you want to use this chance. I know you want to make a difference. I know you want more. Now I can’t promise that this will be… the more you are seeking. That this will solve problems. I actually believe it will create more problems than it will create solutions, but… I am begging you to make the effort, to let me try… to let us try. To be better. To change what we can. To move forward, but in the right direction.”

Brienne swallows thickly. Whether she is bad at hiding or he is good at reading, she doesn’t know, and truthfully, at this point in time Brienne finds herself not caring. Because he offers her at least some kind of direction. Whether it leads to where Brienne believes she must go, she can’t tell, but it’s certainly not walking circles.

“You mean that,” she says faintly.

“With every bit of myself. If my word meant anything close to what your word means, Lady Brienne, I would give it to you. But my honor… it isn’t much. So all I can offer you is my honesty. Because I am being earnest. I am. I was given more chances than anyone should be entitled to have,” he says, licking his lips. “I shouldn’t be here… but I am. And I am to play a role in this… game, this new game that is no game. So I have to bring out the best in me, and my best is not necessarily being my smartest. In fact, I doubt it. Because… what saved so many innocent lives in that city… it wasn’t my smartness. It was my brother’s bravery. It was his willingness to give everything for that sole purpose. It was his honor. His goodness.”

“I know,” she breathes.

“And I have to do my best to live up to that. Now, I may not be his Lord Hand, but I am his brother. And I have a seat on his council. I was not just given a second… third… too many to the count… chance. I was given a task. And I cannot afford to fail yet again. But with your help… I have a better feeling about not being an utter failure, of being utterly powerless once more, or even if I am… that you will tell me that I am doing a terrible job and that I should step down.”

“No doubt I would,” she answers. “Whether there was an agreement or not.”

He smiles at that. “And I am more than relieved to hear that. I think what Jaime said was just right, during his coronation. That the King can’t go unchecked, but the same has to apply to his advisors. We can’t go unchecked. And so… I want you to have an eye on me.”

“Then… where do we begin?” Brienne asks, swallowing.

Tyrion shrugs his shoulders. “Somewhere, and we see to where it leads us.”

“And when it leads us nowhere?”

“We walk back and start over. And if need be, another time still, until we arrive somewhere.” He smiles.

“… Alright,” she mutters. “That sounds like… almost a plan.”

But perhaps it is a plan good enough for her to start with. If you don’t know to where you are headed, you sometimes don’t have the choice but to retrace your steps, see what went wrong, and walk the other direction upon next try.

“So I can count on you to help me?” Tyrion questions.

“You can count on me to challenge you,” she answers drily.

“Music to my ears, Lady Brienne, music to my ears.” He grins, folding his hands on his belly as he leans back in his chair, looking very much relieved.

“You won’t say that little time from now,” Brienne warns him.

“I have been talked down for most of my life, I don’t believe you can ever compare to that,” Tyrion sniggers, and Brienne finds herself smiling faintly, finds herself daring to do it, for now anyway. “We’ll have to see.”

Tyrion claps his hands on the table with a grin. “In that spirit, how about we test that new practice, yes? Because I have some ideas in mind and I want your honest opinion.”

“Go ahead.”

Because that is the one direction they all share in, is it not?

“So.” Tyrion folds his hands under his chin. “The Crown is hugely indebted to the Iron Bank, thanks to my sister’s _spendings_. And we don’t have enough money just yet to pay them back. We don’t have resources to pull from the Rock or from the treasuries of King’s Landing. Pulling it from other regions is out of the question.”

“Yes,” Brienne agrees, trying to ease into this new game she seemingly has to learn now, a game that is no game.

“I was thinking about an elaborate plot to bribe certain members of the Iron Bank to buy ourselves some time, using some money we can get out of trade. Then I started to consider blackmailing because it creates a much stronger incentive and require less resources, which are scarce anyway. Do we find this morally acceptable, given the current circumstances?”

Brienne studies him for a long moment before answering, “The former perhaps, depending on the nature of the bribe as well as the sums involved. As to the latter… you sincerely consider threatening those people? Or anyone in general?”

She would rather say no to both, but Tyrion is right, they have to find a new approach, and not always is it the elegant solution, the one without shadows dancing on along the walls.

“Well, we don’t have to threaten to take their lives…,” he says, his voice trailing off.

“No.”

Tyrion frowns. “Will you elaborate?”

“No.”

“This is not really what I had in mind,” he chuckles.

“You will have to get used to that because _this_ is out of question. It’s just that simple, my lord.”

Tyrion’s smirk broadens at that. “I think you and I are going to get along really well, Lady Brienne.”

“I highly doubt that.” She narrows her eyes.

“Who knows, maybe we will grow to be friends over this.”

“I highly doubt that,” Brienne repeats, her lips curling upwards.

“We will have to see what the future holds for us,” Tyrion tells her. “Until then… now would be time for your proposal.”

Brienne wrinkles her nose, contemplating. She may not inspire anticipation in people, but for what it seems, someone now builds on her to speak her mind – and since she gave her word, Brienne will have to keep it, however strange it may be.

“Military within the city is a major concern. The standing army is decimated and there aren’t enough people to replace them without destabilizing other regions or creating further dissent amongst them,” she says after a while.

“Yes.” He nods his head slowly, listening, anticipating, in fact.

“Which means the standing army for King’s Landing has to come from _within_ King’s Landing,” she continues.

“But we don’t have people for that,” Tyrion ponders.

“We have people, but they need to _learn_.”

Tyrion leans forward in his seat, his lips curling into a grin, leaving no doubt on her mind, for once, that she has his undivided attention. “Do go on.”

And so Brienne does.

She moves forward, with an unexpected new traveling companion, for what it seems.

But so long they move forward, they can’t be entirely wrong.

_Right?_

And even if they are, Brienne hopes that it is as Tyrion says: They can walk back and start over, until they are headed in the right direction, to sue their second chance and make their efforts matter.

* * *

Jaime is used to councils, that’s not it, but he never found himself in the position to be at the far end of the table. He isn’t used to make decisions reaching beyond military tactics. Yet, here he sits, at the end of that large table, all eyes on him, _well, almost all eyes_ , because his Lord Hand is far too busy looking out the window instead.

Sometimes he wonders whether Brandon Stark is paying him back for what happened in that tower in the strangest of ways, but Jaime is always quick to abandon the thought. The young man doesn’t strike him as someone much caring about humor or trick, granted that there is anything he truly cares about.

_Who can tell?_

“… Does the King have anything to add?” Jaime can hear his brother ask. He whips his head around to look at Tyrion.

“I don’t believe,” he answers, coughing lightly, scowling himself internally. Jaime knows he can’t allow for his mind to drift too far away, not when it comes to these matters. That may have been acceptable back when he was a lad, preoccupied with wooden swords and dreams not yet tainted by the reality of being a man of the Kingsguard under the Mad King. Yet, it is no longer acceptable now that a crown sits upon his head and he sits at the far end of the table, with all eyes on him.

“Alright, then how about the King now tells us what he sees has priority?” Tyrion suggests. Jaime grimaces at him. While his little brother knows well to disguise his intentions, there is something to the younger man’s smile that as Jaime wonder what Tyrion may be up to – because he is up to something, Jaime knows that much.

He just has the bad feeling that it won’t amount to anything good for him in turn. Because, as clever as Tyrion is, he sometimes has the most troublesome ideas.

“Well, it may not be the one priority above them all, but a major concern for me is that we need a standing army, and that fast. We don’t have enough people to wield the abundance of weapons strewn across the city – for us.”

He already saw many soldiers sworn to protect the city fall when Daenerys Targaryen and her forces swept through the streets following the call of Fire and Blood. Yet, Jaime came to see that even more soldiers fell after he came into the Red Keep to get to Cersei – and failed. And more still had their lives drained from their bodies under the clenched fist of the Unsullied for as long as they held the city.

Now there is just a few handful of soldiers. Certainly, in times of war, lords and ladies tend to make do with whatever they can get, having generals thrust swords into the hands of men who never held a blade before, safe for the ones they used for farming and creating life instead of taking it. Nonetheless, those people aren’t soldiers. They can be taught to march, they can be taught to hold a weapon without sticking themselves with the pointy end, but it takes more to be a soldier, to be a warrior. And of those, only few remained who could safeguard a city still suffering not just from destruction but also from dissent.

Not all fancy the new King, not all love what he proposes. Jaime knows this, he is used to it perhaps better than most. And voices grow louder that they do not want him in the Red Keep, or anywhere near that city, in fact. If there is no standing army, if there is not enough people for a City Watch, of that Jaime is certain, wars in small will soon force blades into the hands of people who should have no business wielding them.

_And I’d rather prevent that from the beginning, if I can. But how?_

“Well, we can’t just make soldiers appear at will, I am afraid,” Davos says with an easy smile whilst stroking his beard.

“I know,” Jaime sighs wearily, “but as a general, let me tell you that it can’t stay the way it is. Not only do we have people we know for a fact are against us, but there are also people in King’s Landing who have something against us, too, against me in particular. There are people quarreling over scarce resources, and there is no one to keep the peace. They will pick up the sword much faster now, I fear. They won’t take what they took from my sister or Daenerys Targaryen if they can help it. And as things stand… they could help it if they put their minds and weapons to it.”

“Which is the reason why I have someone come here after this meeting is over to discuss some momentary relief effort,” Tyrion then says with a smile.

Jaime narrows his eyes at the younger man. “That grin of yours tells me that this is something I won’t like.”

“Then you are mistaken, my King,” the younger man insists, his smirk telling an entirely different story. “I believe you will come to thank me.”

“Now I know for a fact that I won’t like it,” Jaime huffs, looking at the rest of his Small Council. “And you are in the know?”

“Lord Tyrion discussed that with us, yes,” the Master of Ships confirms.

“And you agree?”

“We agreed that the King should have the final word on that matter,” Davos answers, offering a smile filled with an uncanny reassurance Jaime would like to hold on to the same way he can’t trust it. For that, the smiles are too easily exchanged between the members of his council, safe for the one staring out the window.

“Either way, we will leave that matter aside for now, despite its importance. There are other things that need our attention, too, however,” the Master of Coin suggests.

Jaime sighs, resigning himself to his fate of being kept waiting until Tyrion finds it right to reveal his plan to him. By now, he grew used to his brother’s antics regarding these matters. On the upside, as King, he gets to make the final decision, no matter who clever Tyrion believes himself to be about convincing him.

_And on the downside, I have to make decisions regarding these matters, too._

“What else do we have, then?” Jaime asks the men keeping his council now.

“The Iron Bank, it seems, grows rather impatient,” Davos says.

“Define ‘rather impatient’,” Jaime demands, the corners of his mouth tightening. Since Davos has some experience with the Iron Bank from his service under Stannis Baratheon, the council agreed to let him handle the negotiations for the moment, together with Tyrion, but Jaime can’t say he has much confidence. Not in those two, but in the benevolence of those running the Iron Bank.

People who keep money have a hard time sharing it. The more they have, the greater their ambition to keep it.

The Master of Ships exhales, leaning his head from left to right. “Well, they don’t necessarily say it in their messages as clearly, but they tell us in as many kind words as they can that they better see some money soon or else they will find means to _compensate_.”

“So… they are out of patience already and are kindly telling us just that,” Jaime exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Davos nods his head slowly. “Yes, I am afraid so.”

“That was to be expected,” Jaime huffs, blowing out air through his nostrils. “How do we make them forget about their impatience, though? Any ideas?”

“Well, in my experience with the Iron Bank, they are willing to _forget_ for a time if they get at least a bit ahead, to signal that we are in the process of paying back,” Davos explains. “And by that I don’t just mean quick assurances of paying back. They have to have the feeling that we are worth an _investment_.”

“We don’t have agricultural goods right at this moment. Most of that burned thanks to Daenerys’s dragon. Casterly Rock doesn’t have gold anymore. The former Queen spent savings on military, the Golden Company, weaponry, and... that money won’t come back. It is out of question to pull money from the Six Kingdoms. Then I truly will be a King for very short, I am sure,” Jaime ponders.

Against all odds, he finds something strangely liberating about speaking about those affairs more or less openly to his advisors. His father would turn in his grave another time, if he knew that he let people in on the grand secret of Casterly Rock’s mines having run empty long time ago. But Jaime doesn’t want to tell lies. He wants to speak truth instead. He wants truth spoken to him instead. 

While Jaime still believes that not everyone has to know everything, he rather has his council in the know about options they don’t have or troubles they may be facing. How else are they supposed to keep his counsel and help him make good decisions?

And personally, he finds himself breathing a little easier not having to bury as much inside himself as he has done for many years. Those things? Jaime can just let them out and he can be sure they won’t leave this room unless he wants them to.

_As someone once told me, you need trust to have a truce, and so I have to trust them, too, so they may trust me, isn’t that right?_

“We may consider focusing some of the effort of cleaning up the city back on the Red Keep to find whatever precious metals or things of value that we can,” Davos continues to say.

Jaime sucks the inside of his cheek between his teeth. “Well, most of that will be pretty… dented.”

“True, but if we have it taken apart and molten together, perhaps, we may get something _shiny_ enough to present to them.”

“But it won’t be enough to satisfy them, will it?” Jaime argues. He can’t imagine they can be so easily fooled into an investment, not after they had their fingers burned a great many times from King Robert over King Joffrey to King Tommen and Queen Cersei.

“That depends. I believe we can get enough out of that to give to them to extend their patience a while, but we may make more out of that by showing them a promise of what will come in the future,” Davos continues. “As I said, to inspire investments.”

“By what means would we achieve that?” Jaime questions.

“There are ways to make not so precious items appear far more precious than they are. And now say, if we were to present them to a representative of the Iron Bank as a way to signal them that the Crown is not as badly off as it may seem, but can’t afford to pay back based on investments that need to be made to enlarge that wealth the Crown still holds… we may buy ourselves some valuable time to actually catch up to the investment they’d make for our future,” Davos says, carefully weighing his words, for what it seems. “If a little belated.”

“And how do we magically make items appear more precious than they are?” Jaime asks, cocking an eyebrow at the older man.

Davos chuckles softly. “I may know a friend who can help make those certain items appear in the right light, from my times… before entering politics, yes?”

“Ah, so _that_ kind of a friend,” Jaime huffs.

“I am merely suggesting, Your Grace, if you’d much rather…,” Davos means to say, but Jaime cuts him off, “No, no, do go ahead. The Iron Bank is a bunch of vultures, so I don’t much care about hurting their feelings. And I don’t much care who may make a coin off of that so long we keep our people clothed and fed, including some friends who have alternative means of making money. Because that is what _I_ invest in… More so, I will admit that I would quite like it if some of the rubble disappeared at last. I lost count how often I stumbled to my chamber.”

Davos nods his head. “Then I will see to that, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” Jaime says. “On that same note, though?”

“Yes, Your Grace?” the older man blinks at him.

“If you have ideas of that kind, please come to me with them immediately _before_ asking around. I want to make things right, but I also know that sometimes we don’t come around some clever trick so long more pressing needs are met. However, I want to be involved in the process from beginning to finish, so I can take responsibility for it if something goes awry. Can we agree on that, too, going forward?”

“Of, of course, Your Grace,” the Master of Ships agrees, and if Jaime is not mistaken, there is appreciation reflecting in the older man’s expression. Jaime can’t say he himself appreciates it, but the Iron Bank is unforgiving when it comes to getting their money, and they don’t have the means to pay them back at once. So long the people aren’t put at risk, Jaime is much more willing to shoulder the risk of playing some tricks on people getting far too much for doing nothing but sitting on their treasures.

“Good. Anyone else?” Jaime wants to know, looking back at his council.

Sam, shy as always, raises his hand, only to notice that they don’t take turns with a raise of the hand, so he quickly hides his fingers back in his sleeves, coughing lightly.

“I am happy to bring some good news: the sickbays we established around the city start to release more and more patients. The Citadel provided some much-needed medicine and even gave me a book I requested… after I returned the ones I took… So, general health is improving again. There were no outbreaks of disease as of now, which can follow after such catastrophe. That is a very good sign… Your Grace.”

“Good news, very good news. Surprising, but sure as the Seven Hells burn hot will I take it,” Jaime sighs, a small wave of relief rushing through him. He’d much rather have only those news, because it’d mean they do a lot more right than wrong, but at the very least, those are things they can look forward to.

Those are things to rebuild a nation upon.

_It’s a start, at least… a step in the right direction, forward._

“I have something as well,” Tyrion then says. “To be more cost-effective in our rebuilding efforts, I had the men working on removing the rubble instructed to save up stones that look like they can be reused. The stones and dust and such, as it was suggested to me, might be used for the Red Keep to help the overall stability of the building by filling up… the crypts.”

He looks at his brother with a tight grimace, silence spreading not just between them but in the entire room, echoing without a sound, through empty hallways and cracks in the walls.

“… Well, almost poetic, if you think about it… the city will become the new heart of the Red Keep to help it stand again,” Jaime mutters, bowing his head.

“Most parts will be left as they are, but it was pointed out that the structure may be made more stable if some of the crypts are filled up,” Tyrion adds. “So, to assure you, we won’t wake… any ghosts.”

Jaime shakes his head. He is not afraid of ghosts other than the ones inside himself, begging to get out.

“Then they shall do that,” the King sighs, before turning his head to another council member. “And my Lord Hand? Anything to add?”

“No,” is the simple reply.

“Well, I suppose we can’t be on the worst track, then,” Jaime comments.

“You are not,” Bran answers.

Jaime looks back at the remaining members of the council, though sadly, they can only provide a collective shrug. Because those are the kinds of truths only Brandon Stark himself knows, and he will have to know when to share them.

“Good,” Jaime says, nodding his head slowly. “Anything else?”

“I think that’s all for the Small Council, Your Grace,” Sam answers.

“I thank you for your time,” Jaime says.

With that, Sam and Davos get up from their chairs. The older man walks up to Bran to wheel him out of the chamber, though the young man hardly takes notice of it, instead keeping his dark eyes fixed on the window for as long as he can without turning his head, seeing what only he can see, understanding only what he can understand.

Jaime then turns his attention to his brother who also got up from his chair, but now flashes a smile Jaime is most certain doesn't amount to any good.

“So, what do you have up your sleeve that’s meant to give me a headache?” the King sighs, hoping to get over this matter quickly.

“Nothing. This is supposed to help,” his little brother answers.

“Tyrion.”

“She is here on business only.”

Jaime slams his hand on the table. “ _She_ … please tell me you don’t try to do what you did at the feast in Winterfell! Please tell me you are not up to…”

Tyrion holds up his hands to calm his brother before he can curse himself into a fury. “I am _not_. You have a problem, she has a solution, which is why she agreed to come here and talk to you about it.”

“And how do you know but I don’t?”

“I have my ways, that’s all you need to know for now,” Tyrion argues. “So, can I lead her inside or will you keep her waiting?”

Jaime narrows his eyes at him. “What do you think?”

“I will be right back, then, Your Grace,” Tyrion says, grinning, before walking out the door.

Jaime sucks in a deep breath as he keeps nestling around with his clothes, straightening his crown, only to consider messing it all up again. Just what is he doing? Brienne doesn’t care for that, he knows. So why would he do that?

_Oh right, because it’s the first time I speak to her after I confessed to her why I left, or rather, told her what I could say. There was that little inconvenience_ , Jaime scolds himself.

He still doesn’t know what the future holds, even less so what their future may hold. And Jaime also knows that this is no question he can ask his Small Council to provide him with an answer.

Before he can ponder any longer, Tyrion walks back inside, Brienne’s tall frame moving in after him two steps behind, in armor, her fingers tightly curled around the sword Jaime gave her. Though to his surprise, there is another person entering alongside her, a face he vaguely remembers.

Jaime hastily steps forward, bowing his head lightly. “Lady Brienne… and Ser Addam Sharp, right?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man also wearing armor answers. Jaime puts him at about Davos’s age, perhaps a little younger. Gray streaks cut through his dark hair like little daggers. He is a little shorter than Brienne. His green brown eyes reflect experience.

“We still feel greatly indebted to you for coming all the way from Tarth to King’s Landing to help us in these most troubling times,” Jaime tells him.

Ser Addam rewards him with a kind smile. “It was a pleasure, Your Grace.”

“So, what brings you here, to the Red Keep? I am afraid my brother was rather… elusive about it until now,” Jaime questions, his eyes only ever briefly lingering on Brienne’s, not knowing what reflects in their endless blue for now.

“Lord Tyrion and I had conversation a while ago, whereby it became apparent that there is some issue regarding the safety of the city. Now, Tarth does not have too many forces they can spare to stock up the armies here.”

“Right,” Jaime agrees.

“So, Ser Addam and some others would like to offer to stay in the capital a while longer to help educate people to be made members of the City Watch, if they so desire. They have experience they are willing to share. With your allowance, I would join just those efforts, and so would Podrick,” Brienne explains.

Jaime can’t help but smile. “You keep surprising me.”

“We want to help keep the city safe. That is what we can offer,” Brienne answers. “We cannot make soldiers appear at will, but we can teach people who want to join our cause how to do that to the best of their abilities.”

“And I will gladly take that offer. The both of you, I thank you so much.”

“Your Grace, I find this very much necessary, which is why I only find it right that we help wherever we can. If the city goes down… we all fall with it, that’s what nearly happened under the Queens that served before you and I don’t think we need it happening again,” Ser Addam tells him resolutely.

“I very much agree. Of course you will be provided lodgings and whatever materials we have at our disposal. In fact, we have more swords than people able to bear them, which is the problem,” Jaime says, smiling back with a crooked grin.

“I think we can relieve that in some fashion, at least,” the older man answers.

“I told you it was a good plan,” Tyrion chimes.

“Don’t be smug about it,” the King hisses back in a low voice.

“Well, then I propose that I shall show Ser Addam where we have the training grounds cleared, so he knows where he is to work soon,” the younger brother suggests. “And you two… well, you will find something to do, I am sure.”

Jaime glowers at him, but Tyrion gestures at Ser Addam to follow him outside before Jaime can say anything about it. And before either one knows what is happening, they stand alone in the room, with no one to keep them counsel other than themselves.

“I am thankful, truly,” Jaime begins.

“Could we quit that, too? That you always thank me as often as you do?” Brienne asks, chewing on her bottom lip. “I don’t chase praise, as you should know.”

“I know, but you _deserve_ it. In that short time you have done more for the city than most of us did… but I will quit if it so pleases you,” he sighs. Jaime knows he is not the one to make demands regarding those things, but he wants her to know, he wants her to understand that she shouldn’t make herself or her deeds smaller than they are. That is what she does _not_ deserve.

“Much appreciated,” she mutters, looking around.

“I’m sorry for my brother evidently… scheming some. He can’t seem to help himself,” Jaime adds, shaking his head. And here he hoped Tyrion learned his lesson back at the feast.

_And I thought I was the slow learner of the family…_

“I expected it, though we share in a common goal here, so it’s alright. We found an agreement that works for us, for now anyway,” Brienne informs him.

“Well, that comes unexpected,” Jaime snorts.

“Imagine how unexpected that is for me. I actually had little intention to talk to your brother, moving forward,” Brienne huffs.

“What made you change your mind?” Jaime asks, cocking an eyebrow at her. He doubted she’d ever speak to Tyrion in private again, so long she could help it.

“The offer he made was good.” She rolls her shoulders.

Jaime’s mouth opens and closes a few times as he ponders what to say next, but then he realizes they both keep standing awkwardly a few feet away from one another. The King nearly hops over to the front of the table.

“Please, have a seat, I mean… if you want, that is.” Jaime screws his eyes shut for a moment. For that he is meant to run a nation, he fails quite terrible at offering someone a seat already.

Brienne stands there for a long moment, studying him, then the table, the chair he grabbed with his left, then him again. At last, she nods her head and moves forward, so Jaime pulls the chair back for her. Brienne sits down slowly, her hand never leaving Oathkeeper for only just a single second.

Jaime sits down as well, begrudging the circumstance that he left his sword in his chamber before coming to the meeting. It seems to help her find an anchor in a world seemingly always on the verge of tilting over.

“How… how are you?” he asks softly.

“The children are faring well, I am still debating with my father over a second delivery, but…,” Brienne recounts, but Jaime stops her before she can go on any further, “That’s not what I was asking. I wanted to know _how_ you are doing, not _what_ you are doing.”

Jaime knows Brienne likes to hide her own affairs behind her duties. It may even a be a trait they come to share in. because duties provide clear rules for an otherwise chaotic world, tipping left and right and left again. Yet, he needs to know how she is, not what she is doing, not the good deeds she is doing.

“I am… I don’t know, really,” Brienne answers truthfully, though she can’t look him in the eye as she speaks.  

“But you have everything you need?” Jaime questions.

“Yes, yes, I am… there is nothing to worry about,” Brienne assures him.

“I’m glad to hear that. But please, let me know in case there is…”

“I know,” she interrupts, offering a reassuring albeit small smile.

Silence falls after that, leaving them to look around the room instead of each other.

Jaime is surprised that Brienne is the one to break the silence after a while by remarking, “Still didn’t quite get used to the sight, I will admit.”

“Me neither,” Jaime admits.

“Do you want to hear something curious?” Brienne asks softly.

He smiles faintly. “By all means.”

Jaime would like to add “I want to hear all you have to say and more,” but he knows that this is neither the occasion nor his right to demand. Back at Winterfell, back during those shared moments by the hearth in her chamber, Jaime grew greedy for the stories Brienne shared, the memories she let him into. It covered distances they still felt at intimate touches they were yet to get used to. It made contact, skin to skin, impossibly closer.

Yet, they aren’t at Winterfell anymore. A thousand leagues and what feels like a thousand lives now lie between who they were by that hearth and who they now are, sitting next to each other, unsure of what to say.  

“I like the cracks,” Brienne then says, pulling Jaime out of his thoughts, back to her eyes as they travel over those crevices running through the walls like veins.

“Do you?” he chuckles softly, stealing glances as Brienne’s blue eyes remain fixed on the veins running through the walls. He knows he shouldn’t, but Jaime can’t help himself, sometimes at least.

“They remind me of… how fragile such a strong thing like a castle can be. And I always found that the Red Keep in particular had an aura about itself… not to touch anything because it was of precious metal, precious stone… Now it’s… not that much,” Brienne ponders. “And foremost, there is more light now.”

“You are the first one to say that,” Jaime tells her faintly.

_Though not the first to think that._

“I guessed as much,” she says, flashing a small, uncertain smile almost aimed in his direction, though not quite.

“But I agree. I consider keeping some of them, actually,” Jaime says.

“Well, you are King. That is your good right… It is your home…,” she says, then pauses, adding softly. “How are you?”

“Trying to run a nation… I have my hands full, well, one hand.”

“Gendry did well with the new design,” Brienne comments, looking at his new hand.

“I quite like it, yes.” Jaime nods his head.

Silence falls upon them once more. Because, for what it seems, where there once were shared secrets by the hearth, there are now words left unsaid putting distance in place of closeness, pushing away what once pushed together with such desperation, such need, such want, to never be apart again.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks after a while.

“You can, but I can’t guarantee an answer.”

“Why do you stay in King’s Landing?”

“I told you…,” she means to say, but Jaime cuts her off before she can escape that bit of closeness, that ounce of truth he needs from her. “You wouldn’t have to be here in person for this to be achieved. You could order for Ser Addam to handle those affairs at your behest. You could write letters from… anywhere in the Six Kingdoms. You could write from Winterfell, by Sansa’s side if it pleased you. You could… you could write it from Tarth, your home… The thing is… I would have understood had you left, or if you were to leave now, but… I am trying to understand why you stay… despite it all… despite… me.”

Jaime swallows thickly. He knows that Brienne possesses a kind of strength hardly anyone can match – and that does not concern her prowess in fight. She has a strength of character, a strength of heart. Yet, he is afraid for her still, even now that the city nearly fell and Daenerys Targaryen’s short reign ended. Jaime fears that Brienne is fighting an invisible warrior with an actual sword with no more than a tourney sword in hand, to prove something to him, to numb the pain she feels for a guilt Jaime believes she shouldn’t feel at all.

And that scares him. Because Jaime wants Brienne safe. He wants her to get better. He wants for those wounds to heal, for scar tissue to form and fade away. But if she keeps cutting herself, there won’t be enough ointment for that suffering.

Jaime can’t have her suffer anymore. He can’t stand it. It’s creating cracks where no light ever reaches.

And yet, here they are, and Brienne sits here next to him when he has little doubt that she would rather be anywhere but here, beside him, anywhere near him. Brienne may believe in him, in his reign, in the King he can become, but that doesn’t mean she has to be here and face the man who left her in tears by the gates of Winterfell, riding away without looking back because he could feel her pain stabbing his heart with every step of distance put between them as he kept riding South.

_And maybe she’d be better off if she were to return the favor._

“… I told you, back when we had that… conversation. And I mean it still. Back at Winterfell, before Daenerys Targaryen attacked King’s Landing, I didn’t do something I know I should have done, and I regret not having done it. I regret not having acted the way I could have. The way I should have,” Brienne answers. “You are right. I could have left King’s Landing to be with Sansa, let Pod or Ser Addam handle those affairs on my behalf, but… I would have run away yet again, from that responsibility.”

“Brienne…”

“Let me finish, please,” she tells him, her voice soft but resolute. “I know you mean well to assure me that it’s not my responsibility, but I feel responsible. Your assurances change nothing about that.”

“Alright,” he mutters.

“Back when you rode off… and I did not come after you, didn’t come to a city burning… I felt craven for the act. It was craven not to go. It was craven to stay and lick my wounds over a broken heart. Sansa doesn’t need me anymore. She has people to protect her in my stead. But here is a whole city that needs defending, that needs help rebuilding. And I think… that this makes King’s Landing my place to be, for now… because I can change things here I couldn’t change anywhere else,” Brienne tells him. “I can make a difference here, not just for myself but others as well.”

“It wasn’t craven. You aren’t craven,” Jaime argues.

She is far too brave to his liking more often than not. In fact, Jaime would much rather have her be craven at times. Because people who run from danger are not as likely to walk into it.

“I was,” Brienne insists.

“Brienne, no, if I left you under the impression…”

“That is nothing you did, that is something I did not do. That’s the whole point. You see, back at Winterfell, before the battle against the living dead… I said that at least we’d die with honor.”

He nods. “I remember that.”

And he can still remember how much faster his heart beat then. Jaime can still remember how, in that moment, he found his resolve renewed and wondered, for the briefest of moments, how only so few people saw that same light shining that he saw thanks to her, shining from within her.

“I meant that. With every bit of myself. I joined this cause because I wanted to defend the living, the people, or die in the attempt. As did you. But confronted with that choice a second time, I stayed at Winterfell and kept putting wood on.” Brienne shakes her head.

“I said certain things to you in the hope you’d do just that, I told you,” Jaime argues.

And now he keeps things left unsaid, so to leave a little less burden resting on her strong shoulders, but Jaime finds himself failing to lift that weight off of her despite his best efforts. Sometimes he wished she was more selfish. It’s easier to be good to people who are selfish, he’s had that with his sister long enough, too long, in fact. But Brienne is different. She is not selfish. She can’t seem to focus on herself even if he would want her to, to the point that she’d stay around the man who hurt her so out of a sense of duty and failed responsibility.

Her gaze wanders over to the window, then, looking for something Jaime doesn’t know what it could be. “I was rejected by Sansa, you know? She didn’t want my help back when she was on the run with Littlefinger. She refused my services, wanted nothing to do with me. And still I kept riding after her, and still I meant to keep the promise I made both to Lady Catelyn… and to you. I stared at a tower, waiting for a candle’s light for months, but I did not ride South when the world that we know was on the verge of collapse… I did not ride South, knowing that you were… It was craven.”

“I pushed you there,” Jaime mutters.

He pushed her away when he wanted to pull her close. Because that just seems to be Jaime’s natural condition, his innate tragedy, to push away what he’d mean to keep and keep for too long what he should have pushed away from the very beginning.

He pushed her away, but now he can’t just pull her back, can he?

_Can I?_

Because that would be selfish, right? And Jaime can’t be selfish to this selfless woman, can’t be selfish and greedy when it comes to feelings he knows he can’t get counsel for, has to figure out on his own.

“And I didn’t push back,” she argues, smiling sadly. “And if there is one thing you proved with your acts, then it is that one man can make a great difference. I didn’t make a difference to anyone, for anyone. I just kept my fire going.”

“Brienne…”

She turns her gaze to him this time, and Jaime can see a kind of certainty he saw reflected in Ser Addam’s eyes.

“Not just Lannisters always pay their debts. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice. I want to make a difference, however small, but I won’t make at Winterfell. I won’t make it on the Sapphire Isle. Change happens here, now. You asked me why I feel like I have to stay here, why I have to be in this city: This is why. I have a debt to pay. And now you can go on telling me that it is all your fault, but it doesn’t matter. I made a choice and you made yours. You didn’t run away from a fight, you never did. Mine was to run away from a fight for the first time. And that is… regrettable. That is worth… paying back for, with whatever I can. And I choose to do that now. I am a soldier, I am now a general. Thanks to you… I am also a knight. I can help people learn how to use a knife, a sword, a shield, a bow. So why should I refuse? Why should I run again? Just because of…”

Brienne taps the flat of her palm against her chestplate.

“That can’t be… ever again. And that is why I hope you start to understand why I need to be here as much as you do. I have a debt to pay, too. And I am done running away from it. You said during your speech to the people that you want to be the man deserving of the title, and I want the same for myself. You knighted and charged me to protect the innocent. And I wish to make good on that promise, that oath. This is not just about us, this is far greater now. Do you understand that?”

“I do,” Jaime whispers. Because he does. As far apart as they may be while being just an arm’s length away from one another, it is during those moments Jaime is convinced their fragile hearts beat as one, ache from the same cracks running across the flesh.

“If there is someone I trust to achieve it, it is you,” Jaime tells her, putting as much resolution into his words as he can, tries to reflect as much certainty into his eyes as he can, so that she understands it, sees it.

_I trust you, I lo…_

Brienne’s eyelids flutter at that. “Thank you.”

“If there is anything you need to… to achieve what you want, I will do my best to… to help you get there. All you have to do is ask,” Jaime assures her quickly.

_Anything, I’d do anything for you_ , he wants to say, but does not. Because he cannot. Must not.

“I will think about it,” she whispers, looking down.  

“Just let me know,” Jaime tells her. “And I mean it – let me know.”

“I will… and I thank you, for understanding.”

Jaime grins faintly. “I thank you for staying… despite it all.”

“Well, there are a lot of things to stay for, too.”

He smiles at her and she smiles at him, but that is when silence doesn’t just fall over them, but breaks through them like one of the cracks in the walls. Brienne whips her head around, as though the reality of their distance just flung itself at her, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“I believe that is all for the day?” she asks, coughing lightly. Jaime can see her body tense, can observe her grip on Oathkeeper tightening, holding close to her, for what it seems, the memory of the closeness they once shared instead of the distance now running between them.

“Yes. I thank you.”

“… I reckon I will see you near the training grounds,” she says, getting up. Jaime hastily stands up as well, nearly knocking his own chair over in the process.

Though to his relief, there is a bit of a smile tugging at her lips, assuring him that yes, the distance is there, but that the fragile truce between them remains unbroken.

“I likely will lurk around to distract myself from being a King,” he laughs. “If that’s alright.”

“So long it doesn’t distract you from being a King too long… and even if not, you are King, remember?”

“My privilege and my duty.”

“And so it is mine to… teach.”

“Then I will see you there.”

“You likely will.”

And that’s alright, for what it seems, despite it all.

“Good day, Your Grace,” Brienne says, bowing her head.

“Good day, Lady Brienne,” he answers.

She nods another time before turning around and disappearing through the door from whence she came. Jaime keeps looking at the open door for a moment longer, but then his gaze goes back to the cracks in the walls.

“At least there is more light,” he says, deciding then that he should live by her example yet again, going about his duties to the best of his abilities without distraction, at least with only little distraction.

Because he has to repay, too.

He has things to prove, to the people, to her, to himself.

Despite it all, the woman he thought would mean to fade from his life, did not.

And that, in itself, is more light than he dared to hope to see today.


End file.
